


The Fall of Beacon

by Mawkish_Warden



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Military Science Fiction, Multiple Perspectives, Volume 3 (RWBY), Volume 3 Finale Novelisation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mawkish_Warden/pseuds/Mawkish_Warden
Summary: In the nine hours that it took for Salem's agents to cripple Vale, there were those who fought to keep the city from succumbing to the flames of chaos. Those who rose to face their enemies with courage and valour. Those who braved fire and death for a Kingdom far away from their own. This is the story of the men and women of Atlas, and their defiant stand during Remnant's darkest night.
Kudos: 2





	1. Invasion I

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be the retelling and reinterpretation of Volume 3's finale. It is the sequel to my previous RWBY story, 'The Breach of Vale', but can be read on its own.

**Invasion I**

**Specialist Owen Rockwell**

**2 nd Squad, 1st Platoon, A Company  
** **2** nd Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment  
 **15 th Infantry Brigade Combat Team  
** **4** th Infantry Division

**1922 Hours**

Owen suppressed a yawn as the monotonous _thuds_ of his boots on the concrete footpath threatened to put his drowsy mind to sleep. He shifted his grip on his M29 LMG (Light Machine Gun) and checked that the safety was still on. A weak breeze was hitting him through the exposed lower part of his helmet. He considered reaching for the switch that would activate the mouth guard, or ‘muffler’ as it was referred to, but decided against it, as the slight chill was one of the only things keeping him lucid.

In front of him were his squadmate, Martin, and fireteam leader, Sergeant Hitoshi Tsumura. Like him, they were silent, heads swivelling left and right in a detached effort to at least make it look like they were alert and on duty. On his left was Annette, who was sporadically glancing back at Trevor and Grant, a pair of troopers from 1st Platoon’s Weapons Squad, as they talked about something he’d been too busy being on autopilot to pay attention to. The HUD (Heads Up Display) in his helmet had a thin blue line around their outlines, making for a quick and sure fire method of identification if the need arose.

Even (or perhaps especially) in these closing hours, downtown Vale felt so alive. Neon lights and luminescent signs flashed everywhere he turned, their catchy phrases and simple shapes designed to attract the outgoing and impressionable. Even through the sound dampeners in his helmet, his ears were filled with thumping music and buzzing voices. There were countless people on the sidewalks, their numbers fluctuating as they flitted in and out of bars, casinos and other establishments. Some were clearly intoxicated, their wobbly steps and spontaneous shouting being a source of amusement for onlookers. Others appeared more drunk on the atmosphere than anything else, congregating in groups with their sloppy grins and loose arms that made them stand apart from the more composed. The drone of vehicles, impatiently waiting for the lights at various intersections, was constant and escalated into an ongoing roar when they were finally given the signal to start moving again. On the whole, everything looked normal and bright as ever. And, if Owen tried, he could almost convinced himself that it had always been that way.

Scarcely a month had passed since the Breach. Owen still remembered the screeching klaxons that had jerked him out of his bunk. 1st Battalion had barely had time to form up in their companies and platoons before being shoved into the nearest transports and practically ejected out of the troopship. On the way to the surface, they’d been shown a quick, barebones briefing: Vale had suffered a breach, and they were going to seal it.

With barely any opportunity to process the gravitas of the situation, they’d been spat out onto the streets and told to form a battle line with the rest of the 15th IBCT (Infantry Brigade Combat Team). They’d been forced to sit at their initial perimeter, waiting for the other Army troops and the 5th Marine Expeditionary Unit to similarly deploy. It had been baffling, and infuriating, that they’d had to stand by for the response force to organise itself while just a few hundred metres away, they could hear the _crack_ of gunfire and snarling Grimm, and the screams of the desperate people who they’d been told needed their help. But then the order had come, and they’d started their slow and careful push towards the Breach.

Owen had lost count of how many rounds he’d fired that day. As the automatic rifleman of his fireteam, his M29 had been crucial in keeping up a steady stream of fire, especially against tightly packed groups of Grimm, to let the others single out more dangerous targets with their more powerful, but slower-firing, M90 Rifles and grenades. His fireteam had been able to scrounge together about eight hundred rounds for the LMG before setting out. He’d blown through it all in less than fifteen minutes. Fortunately, resupply airships had constantly been moving back and forth to restock their frontline units and evacuate casualties. If not for them, their squad would have been one of many to crash against the monstrous horde, only to collapse and perish in the wake of depleted munitions.

They’d fought through the streets, with their urge to just press forward and get to the damn Breach being held in check by the threat of being surrounded and overrun if they broke rank with the units on their flanks. 2nd Squad had been lucky that day. They had kept a tight line with the rest of 1st Platoon and made steady progress against the Grimm. When they’d broken through to the subway entrance, they’d set up a final perimeter with the Marines and Vale’s own arriving troops to let the local Huntsmen make the last push and force the creatures back towards Mountain Glenn. It had been bloody and messy, but they’d won…at a terrible price.

Out of all the species on Remnant, humanity and the Faunus had been one of the very few to evolve themselves beyond that of primal intelligence. And they were most certainly the only ones that had developed to the point where they could take advantage of that intelligence to surpass so many others who were physically superior. Through countless millennia, they had chosen to outsmart their adversaries, be it through weapons, infrastructure, or collaboration. With their deft hands and comparatively malleable minds, they were poised to live and flourish in a world hellbent on ensuring otherwise. But all too often, they either forgot or were unwilling to ask, ‘what happens when all our tech – all our guns and ships and robots – just isn’t enough?’

No one liked urban warfare; at least, none that had experienced it firsthand. There were too many blind spots to get hit in the back or sides from. Vehicles had trouble manoeuvring through anything smaller and curvier than a highway and could indefinitely stall a column’s advance if they were rendered immobile from hostile fire or malfunctions. One could spend hours trying to navigate the concrete jungles of buildings and alleyways, desperately trying not to take a wrong turn and frantically glancing about every few seconds just to make sure their buddies were still next to them. And if there were any non-combatants in the area, they’d have to tighten up their trigger discipline even further than usual. Innocent casualties were an ugly inevitability that all but the most idealistic of soldiers were prepared to accept. But that didn’t mean they could just let loose a barrage of fire at the first thing that moved. All in all, it was hell, something that the Breach had reinforced most assiduously, with the added handicap that they couldn’t use any of their mortars, artillery, or motorised elements, for fear of exceeding what the upper echelon were prepared to acknowledge as the minimal threshold for collateral damage.

And so, they had been left to take back the Residential District, block by block, street by street, road by road, the old-fashioned way: with lead and grit. The roads made for perfect firing lanes, but they also corralled the Grimm into incredibly dense waves. The less ammo a soldier had, the more valuable it became. And when squads or platoons couldn’t be cycled out or resupplied fast enough, all they could do was brace themselves for melee.

Atlas trained its regular soldiers in swordsmanship, as well as hand-to-hand combat, but it was always meant to be as a final resort. At their core, they were only human, and without the relentless, borderline fatal, training regime of more specialised units to prepare them, close quarters was the last place they wanted to be in. Yes, they were more intelligent than the Grimm. But when the Grimm broke through all their constructs and deterrents, they were vulnerable. And they died.

A Company had lost two men from 2nd Platoon during the Breach. Owen and the rest of 1st Platoon had been stunned when their names had come up on the list of fatalities. With all the hubris and chest-pounding that came with being in the infantry, it had been easy for them to build up a sense of invincibility. They were part of the most powerful military force in the history of Remnant. They were meant to be unbeatable, untouchable, unkillable. But they weren’t. None of them were. And so, with the mortality of their brethren (and more pressingly, themselves) hammered into their minds, they’d been left to stumble off the battlefield of a city while the Valean reinforcements conducted the unenviable task of sorting through the bodies and debris.

Speaking of the Valeans, Owen was aware of the gazes that lingered on his fireteam. Civilians usually gave police and military a wide berth when they saw them in their everyday lives. But every now and then, he felt the subtle glare of one or more looks directed at his back, as well as the not-as-subtle fingers and sneers pointing at his uniform. Not too long ago, someone had taken to throwing a can of beer at his patrol. As the can’s emptiness could attest to, they’d been intoxicated enough that their aim was off the mark, but the jeers that had followed were indication enough it hadn’t been an accident.

Despite their dogged attempts to close the Breach in Vale, Atlas simply hadn’t had enough troops. To ensure their concentrated push wouldn’t devolve into a mess of isolated, overrun units, they’d had to move slow – make sure every road, every building, every rooftop and gutter, was clear before advancing. And in doing so, they’d given the Grimm time to swell in number, to the point where any further advance was deemed untenable. Valean forces recalled to the city would have arrived to support the counterattack, but in the urban sprawl they’d found themselves in, they too would have become similarly bogged down.

Therefore, the Atlas Navy’s 7th Aerial Fleet had made the choice, with the Vale Council’s authorisation and approval, to bombard the city. Of course, as a mere grunt at the bottom of the chain of command, Owen hadn’t been informed of such a monumental decision. But he’d seen the ships manoeuvring into position. He’d seen the laser batteries aim. He’d seen them fire. He’d felt the heat, even though he’d been over a kilometre from the blasted area. He’d stood with his mouth agape and eyes fixed on the crimson beams of death as his squad leader frantically tried to contact their platoon leader and ask him what the hell was going on – why was the Navy shooting the city?

The days immediately following the Breach had been difficult for the Atlesians. For every news broadcast that showcased the aftermath of the bombardment, Owen had felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Knowing that it had been his people, his Kingdom, who’d clawed such a vicious wound into their allies, even if the tactical reasoning for it had been sound, was nauseating. But for the people of Vale – for those who’d lost friends and family to the 7th’s strike – no amount of logic could overcome the shock that slowly gave way to grief and rage.

Perhaps recognising the unrest brewing in their constituents, the Vale Council had issued a public statement claiming joint responsibility with the Atlas Navy for the bombardment. Owen personally didn’t think it did much to assuage the public outrage, but he could at least appreciate the token gesture of support, whereas lesser leaders would have instead just piled the blame on the Atlesians to preserve their own cowardly political hides.

Two weeks ago, Atlas had dispatched a second armada of over forty ships from the 3rd Aerial Fleet to reinforce the 7th Aerial Fleet, which had been escorting Atlas Academy’s students to the Vytal Festival. They had brought with them the rest of the 4th Infantry Division, as well as the 4th HBCT (Heavy Brigade Combat Team), which was tasked by the Vale Council to assume complete security for the Vytal Festival, as well as fill in for the VPD’s (Vale Police Department’s – which had suffered heavy losses during the Breach) duties.

And such was the reason for Owen’s current state – shuffling his way through a bunch of noisy, flashy streets, weighed down by around forty kilograms of kit and gear, acting as an overequipped cop for a city he’d risked life and limb for, whose inhabitants would see him lynched because of something his superiors had ordered the people in an entirely separate service branch of his military to do.

Life was fucking awesome, sometimes.

He was brought out of his acerbic introspection when he felt Annette bump his side with her elbow.

“What about you, Owen?”

Owen blinked and glanced at her. “About what?”

“The tournament,” said Grant from behind. “We’re betting on the finals.”

For many, the Academy Tournament was one of the Festival’s greatest highlights. Operating on a two-stage system, it would first group eight teams from Remnant’s various Academies selected at random into a bracket, and pit them against each other in quad-, doubles-, and eventually singles-rounds. The winner of the singles rounds would then face the winners of the other similarly formed brackets in a final series of matches to determine the champion student, team, Academy, and Kingdom.

Tonight, the Tournament would wrap up its first stage, resolving who would emerge victorious out of the initial brackets. Owen personally wasn’t very invested in the matches. He could appreciate a good fight as much as the next guy, but after his enlistment, after boot camp, after so many desperate firefights and grinding engagements, after the mutilation and death he’d seen during and after the Breach…he just didn’t have it in him to be excited about the tournament.

Of course, that didn’t mean the others weren’t enthusiastic. Maybe after the crushing loss and destruction over the past month, they just needed an outlet. Or maybe Owen really was just a wet blanket who needed to have the fun knocked into him. Either way, Remnant was eager for the fights to come. There wasn’t a screen, from the largest digital billboards to the smallest scrolls, that wasn’t streaming the singles-rounds. Almost everywhere he looked, he saw the same pair of students, two girls – one with flowing red hair, a spear and shield, and one in a green-white blouse with a stack of floating, glowing swords – currently duking it out.

He shrugged. As much as he didn’t want to be a killjoy, he didn’t have a horse to root for in this particular race.

“Dunno. They seem pretty even.”

“Hey!” said Annette, giving him another elbow, this time with a bit more force. “No sitting on the fence. Pick one. Nikos or Polendina?”

Nikos…oh. Pyrrha Nikos. Owen thought the red-haired student had looked familiar. He’d seen her face pop up on a couple of articles. According to the media, she was a prodigy, unrivalled in combat by her classmates (and many of her seniors too). It was shallow, but he didn’t have a clue who the girl with the knives, Polendina, was. If only to get his squadmates off his back, he’d pick–

“Alright, alright. Nikos, then.”

He heard Grant groan in frustration.

“See? That’s the thing with casual viewers. They don’t even think about who’ll win. Just follow the popularity contest and blah!”

Owen didn’t look back, but he imagined Grant making a funny face and sticking out his tongue to punctuate his exclamation.

“Hey. You guys wanted an answer, so I gave one.”

“I mean,” started Annette, “Grant’s not wrong, but I’d still pick Nikos.”

“No, no, no. Hear me out,” said Grant. “Did you see how Polendina just carried her partner through the doubles-round? It was fucking insane!”

“He wants to see the newcomer underdog win,” said Trevor, who’d been wordlessly walking alongside Grant since Annette had prompted Owen back to reality. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like ponytails.”

Owen and Annette snickered, even as Grant’s protests rang loud and clear. Apparently, their little ribbing was enough to earn their Sergeant’s attention, as exemplified when Hitoshi twisted around and said, “Hey. Knock it off. Keep your heads up. We’re on patrol.”

“Roger, Sergeant,” said Owen. Annette, Grant, and Trevor gave similar affirmatives, and they fell back into a lull.

He was just about ready to return to his comfortable ‘sleepwalk’ when Hitoshi added, “Put me down for Nikos, too.”

“Oh, come on!”

The snickers came back.

“Either way, it won’t matter,” said Martin, their fireteam’s grenadier, who’d been keeping pace with Hitoshi at the front. “We haven’t put anything up for grabs.”

“Can’t put a price on vindication, man,” said Grant. “Just you wait and see. Polendina’s gonna tear up…the…”

Owen looked back at Grant, only to find he wasn’t there. Jerking his head around, he found the trooper a few paces behind their group. He was about to call out to him and ask him why he’d stopped, when he took note of his body language. He’d let go of the under-barrel of his M90, and his right hand barely hung onto the grip. His form was limp and sagging to the left. His head was tilted up and to the right, and his jaw was slack. Owen couldn’t see his eyes because of the helmet, but he could tell where they were pointed. He twisted about, his gaze travelling up a nearby hotel, which had a big communal screen displaying the fight between Nikos and–

Owen’s mind went blank.

For how long, he didn’t know – it could have been five seconds or five minutes. But for whatever it had been, he’d ceased to be capable of doing anything except just breathe in and out. When he came too, he saw the cause of his temporary blackout.

On the floor of Amity Colosseum, scythed from the waist up, and with her left arm cut at the bicep, was Polendina. The girl’s head was turned left, her irises lining up directly with the chosen camera perspective. She was dead. There was no way she wasn’t.

Around him, Owen heard gasps and cries of horror. Everyone had just born witness to a…murder? Or was it an accident? In the ten seconds he’d kept his eyes off the fight, something terrible had happened. Had Nikos done it? Some were pointing at either the closest or biggest screens, while others were actively trying to look away. He saw the rest of his fireteam similarly stunned by the horrific display. Annette mumbled something, but it was too quiet for him to hear.

“What?” he asked her.

“Something’s not right,” she repeated.

“No shit, this ain’t right,” snapped Trevor. “That girl just got hacked to pieces on international–“

“No. Not that,” said Annette. “Look at the cuts.”

As painful as it was to do so, Owen obliged her and found…sparks? Metal? Wiring?

“What the fuck?” he muttered.

“She’s not human,” said Grant, who’d stumbled his way back to their group. “The hell is she, then? Some kind of android?”

Any response they might have had for him was cut off, as a shrill squeal filled their heads. Through his yelp of surprised pain, Owen realised it was coming from his helmet’s internal speakers. He slapped the side of it with his palm, hoping it would make the sound stop. To his relief, after the fifth slap, it disappeared, leaving him with ringing ears and a sour grimace.

He looked up and saw Martin taking a knee, one hand against his own helmet in a vain attempt to massage the aftermath of the screech away, and the other sweeping the ground in front of him to reach for his dropped M90. Only then did Owen realise he’d done the opposite and was clutching his M29 with the hand that hadn’t been trying to give himself a concussion.

“The fuck was that?” said Grant. Owen imagined he was speaking a little louder than normal, but the bells bouncing between his temples made it sound barely louder than a whisper. He shrugged in response, but wasn’t sure Grant saw it – not that it would have helped much if he did.

He felt a hand on his back and realised Hitoshi had come next to him.

“You good, Owen?” his Sergeant asked.

“I’m fine,” he said, giving a thumbs up, and Hitoshi moved to check on the others.

“Annette. You okay?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Weapons team! You alright?”

Before Grant and Trevor could say yes or no, their ears were filled with more noise. This time, a voice.

_“This is not a tragedy. This was not an accident–“_

His HUD flickered for a few seconds. His ammo counter and the blue outlines around his squad disappeared, only to be replaced by a crimson rectangle with a black queen chess piece. Owen didn’t pay much attention to the speaker, too busy trying to just get rid of the sound and display. This time, instead of a second bout of percussive maintenance, he reached for the cover on the left side of his helmet that shielded the various miniature buttons, dials, and switches he could use to operate the very expensive, yet also right now _very_ _compromised_ piece of equipment.

_“What need would Atlas have for a soldier disguised as an innocent little girl? I don't think the Grimm can tell the difference.”_

“Who the fuck is that?” said Martin.

“Probably just some bitch who didn’t get enough attention in high school,” snarked Trevor. “Anyone know how to shut this thing off?”

“You could always just toss it,” Owen said. He tried to restart his helmet’s CCTS-RaR (Cross-Continental Transit System Relay and Receiver) but had no luck. Next, he tried switching to his radio, only to find a similar message hollering at him at every frequency.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Just give me a head start for Jaws.”

Trevor was referring to one Sergeant Major Henrith Orca, 2nd Battalion’s CSM (Command Sergeant Major); a man with a penchant for squeezing every last bit of use and efficiency out of their equipment (which apparently also included the soldiers using said equipment). Out of the over four hundred soldiers under his jurisdiction, if any one of them so much as dropped a pencil or left a crumb on their mess trays, he’d be there to fling spit and grind their elbow joints to dust with pushups.

_“Huntsmen and Huntresses should carry themselves with honour and mercy, yet I have witnessed neither.”_

“It’s not just us,” said Hitoshi. “The whole’s city’s getting this.”

Owen looked back to the hotel screen and saw the same black chess piece and red backdrop.

_“Perhaps Ozpin felt as though defeating Atlas in the tournament would help people forget his colossal failure to protect Vale when the Grimm invaded its streets. Or perhaps this was his message to the tyrannical dictator that has occupied an unsuspecting kingdom with armed forces.”_

“That’s some bullshit,” muttered Grant. But Owen heard something in his voice. Doubt, perhaps? Refusal, maybe. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t similarly conflicted. Not that he had any say in when and where he was getting deployed, but if the 15th IBCT hadn’t been in Vale with the 7th Fleet, there wouldn’t be a Vale in the present day – at least not one that wouldn’t be a mass grave for tens, if not hundreds, of thousands. Yet, the price they’d paid for that victory, the unholy fire their Navy had rained down on the terrified citizens, had just been too much for some. He couldn’t begrudge that. And he couldn’t begrudge their trepidation when, instead of sending away the Atlesians, the Valean government had instead requested for more troops to guard the Vytal Festival.

He tried to return his focus on getting the broadcast to stop playing in his helmet, but the words had already cut into his conscience.

_“–I know that the existence of peace is fragile, and the leaders of our kingdoms conduct their business with iron gloves…Our kingdoms are at the brink of war. Yet we, the citizens, are left in the dark. So, I ask you, when the first shots are fired, who do you think you can trust?”_

Apparently satisfied with their little tirade, whoever was controlling the feed finally allowed the red to disappear from his HUD. The chess piece lingered, if only for a second longer, before too fading away. All around him, the city’s screens had gone black. Slowly, Owen lowered his hand from his helmet’s control pad, as if his cautious movements would placate whoever had made the broadcast. He could see the Valeans. Some were eyeing him and his fireteam. There was fear, accusation, uncertainty, a month of emotions held back by a dam of governmental decrees for order and the belief, genuine or otherwise, that the Atlesians were here because they’d been right – the bombardment had been right. Now, the dam had been cracked. But would it break? Were they now about to face an angry mob? Would their guns be enough of a deterrent, or would they be swarmed? Would they have to shoot these civilians and kickstart a proper war between Atlas and Vale? In that moment, Owen hoped against hope for something else to happen, something that would delay them from having to make that choice.

It turned out he should have been more careful with what he wished for.

In retrospect, it might as well have been inevitable. After weeks of trying to process or repress the pain of the Breach, the people of Vale had just witnessed a student get eviscerated – be it on screen or in person. And then some wannabe revolutionary had somehow hacked their entire CCT (Cross-Continental Tower) Network to say exactly what the people wanted to hear: _Atlas cannot be trusted_.

So many negative emotions, all swirling around in its own little cocktail within the city’s walls, was the perfect attraction, the perfect beacon.

Alarms began blaring. In a wailing cry of distress, it provided the final straw to break the camel’s back. There were screams as people devolved into a panicked frenzy, finally giving in to the hysteria that had been building in the backs of their minds. Owen himself fought the inclination to join them. If it was possible, he gripped his M29 even tighter. He gripped it so hard that his hands began shaking.

“No…”

From the chaos that reigned, a single word made itself heard. It had been Annette. What little of her face was visible was pale. She was losing herself to denial.

“No…”

_Not again…Please…Not again…_

The Grimm were back.


	2. Invasion II

**Specialist Owen Rockwell**

**2 nd Squad, 1st Platoon, A Company  
** **2 nd Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment  
** **15 th Infantry Brigade Combat Team  
** **4 th Infantry Division**

**1931 Hours**

Owen grunted as he was shoved, unintentionally or otherwise, by a group of fleeing Valeans. He could dimly hear some of his fireteam shouting, trying to get the crowd’s attention. Unfortunately for the them, their voices were drowned out by the city’s alarm, and the hysteria of its inhabitants. A dark part of Owen’s mind considered flicking the safety off his LMG and letting off a quick burst in the air, if only to get him and his squadmates some breathing room. He swiftly crushed the notion and just tried to keep himself steady.

Vale was nothing, if not willing to learn. If the Fall of Mountain Glenn had taught them the need to revive their military and defences, the Breach had been a lesson in the importance of developing contingencies for when said military and defences failed. Along with efforts to rebuild the devastated areas, the Kingdom had ordered the construction of over thirty emergency fortified shelters all over the city, in the event that the unthinkable happened and another invasion occurred on Valean soil. Most of them hadn’t been completed yet, but they were the best chance the people had for survival.

Of course, that was what a rational person might have thought. The Grimm attack alert had thrown their patrol route into chaos. Masses of people were running about every which way, their minds clouded by panic. He and his squadmates were doing a little better by staying put and trying to herd the frightened mobs…somewhere. With all the frenzied outbreak of fear and confusion, they weren’t sure where exactly the Grimm incursion was. If they had still been linked to an uncompromised CCT Network, they would have received information on the threat and ordered to move to wherever they were needed. As it was, their CCT-RaRs had gone silent after little-miss-who-can-you-trust’s broadcast. For now, at least, they were blind.

Well…if they didn’t have someone to tell them what to do, they’d just have to find something to do themselves.

“These guys aren’t listening to us!” he yelled at his fireteam. “We need to get off these streets!”

Apparently, Hitoshi agreed with his verdict, as he called out, “Team. On me! We’re gonna find some place out of this mess. Martin. Grab on and try to get Sergeant Pechore on the line.”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

Staff Sergeant (but referred to as just Sergeant as per protocol) Meileen Pechore was their squad leader. She’d been accompanying 2nd Squad’s other fireteam, led by Sergeant André Destello. They’d been on a similar patrol route to Owen’s fireteam, running parallel to their east, but they didn’t know exactly where they were. Hitoshi had made the call – not a very difficult one, but smart, nevertheless – to consolidate their piddly little group with some extra numbers and firepower. If they could reunit the squad, they could start searching for the rest of 1st Platoon, who’d also been deployed to patrol the area.

Owen saw Martin nod. With one hand, the grenadier latched onto Hitoshi, and with the other, he reached for his helmet’s control pad. Their CCT-RaRs might be gone, but they still had their secondary radios. Given what had happened in the last few minutes, no one could trust their communications equipment to work or remain secure, but they didn’t have much of a choice. The Grimm were coming, and when presented with the option of dying on their own or with their buddies by their side, they would take the latter in a heartbeat.

They began wading through the bodies, their weapons and armour giving them a small buffer against some of the panicked runners.

Owen saw Martin choose a frequency, then bark into the radio, “Locksmith 1-2 Actual (A Company, 1st Platoon, 2nd Squad Leader). This is Locksmith 1-2-2 (A Company, 1st Platoon, 2nd Squad, 2nd Fireteam). Do you read? Over.”

He tried several times, saying the same request on several different channels, all of which provided an inadequate response. Eventually, Owen saw him shrug in exasperation, and yell, “I can’t reach her, Sergeant!”

Hitoshi just nodded, and said, “Just keep trying!”

* * *

They finally reached Hitoshi’s designated destination; a little alleyway between a restaurant and a bar that only had enough room for them to go in single file. It had a dead end marked by a high wall topped off by a pointed fence, which probably explained why no one else had come to claim it. If someone was going to cower in a single spot, they’d at least want it to have some proper concealment.

“Everyone. Check your weapons and get an ammo count,” said Hitoshi.

“Roger.”

Owen lifted the latch for his M29 to see that his LMG had a round chambered. After double-checking his various pouches, Owen looked to Annette, who shook her head. He then checked with Martin and Hitoshi, who similarly gave him a negative. Being on a routine patrol, they’d been prohibited from taking ‘excessive’ amounts of ammunition, so as not to intimidate the populace (a ridiculous constraint in his mind, considering they already had their guns out to begin with). Grant and Trevor had been forced to leave their M12 Recoilless Rifle behind, and Owen had reduced his ammo to a two hundred round belt loaded into the gun, and another two in his pouches. Unlike during the Breach, where he could count on the Navy to drop entire crates of bullets and grenades for his fireteam, he was left with an uncomfortably light six hundred rounds. Usually, his fireteam would carry an extra belt or two per person to make sure he could keep rattling away. But not today.

The rest of his squadmates were using thirty round magazines for their M90s. Standard combat loads recommended a total of eight magazines per soldier. They’d been restricted to four, including the one already in the gun. At the very least, they all still had their M15 Sidearms, with one twelve round magazine loaded and two spares.

All in all, they were locked, but most certainly not sufficiently loaded, for war. They just didn’t know where the war was at.

“Martin. Any luck?” asked Hitoshi.

Martin shook his head. “Negative. Comms are FUBAR (Fucked Up Beyond All Repair) right now. No one knows what the hell’s going on.”

Hitoshi didn’t look all that phased. In the maelstrom of pounding feet and tearful screams, he, out of all of them, remained the calmest.

“Alright. We know their patrol route. We’re gonna look for them and link up with as many friendlies as we can. Then, we try to form a strongpoint, or find one that’s already been set up. If things go our way, we’ll be able to reconnect with Battalion HQ.”

“What about the people?” asked Trevor. “They’re scared shitless and all over the place. If we run into hostiles, someone’s gonna get hit.”

“If we see someone in trouble, we’ll help them out,” replied Hitoshi. “But the city’s automated defences are still up, and their scrolls will point them to the nearest shelters.”

“Yeah. If they’ll even bother looking at them,” snorted Grant.

“Hey, that’s not–“ started Annette, but she stopped when Hitoshi held up a closed fist – the universal sign of ‘everyone stop/shut up’.

Owen strained his ears, wondering if whatever his Sergeant was hearing was somehow too sensitive for his helmet’s auditory sensors.

Then, there was a low _thrum_. It reminded him of a series of waves crashing into a faraway cliffside. Then it turned guttural, like a growling lion. It was coming from above. He’d been the last one to enter the alley and was therefore able to be the first one to shuffle his way back out.

The sky was dark, whatever stars that might have been visible having been blotted out by the city’s light pollution. Following his suspicions, he scanned left, right, up – there! Something was wrong with the night. Small shapes dotted the air, steadily growing in size and number. Frowning, he reached for his helmet’s control panel and activated the magnification setting. Zooming in on the objects, he soon came across the silhouette of one, three, ten, too many airships. They were small and fast.

Behind him, he was aware that the rest of the fireteam had exited the alley, not having to worry about being buffeted about by the panicking people, who were also similarly staring at the approaching fleet of airships.

“Guys,” he said. “Did we have an air show scheduled for tonight?”

“Not that I know of,” muttered Annette.

They were close enough that he could see the light of their afterburners. Each one was carrying something. Were they boxes? Shipping crates? Supplies? If he increased the magnification just a little more…

A chill ran up Owen’s neck. Emblazoned on the side of one of the airships was a symbol. Blood red in colour, and in the shape of a snarling animal’s skull, it was struck through by a trio of lines. It was an emblem he knew, that all Atlesians knew. It was the emblem of an enemy, second in threat level only to the Grimm. The emblem seen as the rallying cry for their enemies, battle after battle in an unending cascade of ambiguous targets and righteous zeal.

It was the White Fang.

Unlike his squadmates, the people didn’t have the hardware to make out just what was flying towards them, otherwise they would have resumed their terrified stampede with reckless abandon. But his fellow Atlesians had seen the emblem. And while no one would admit it, they were scared, too.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” said Grant. “The hell are they doing here?”

“They’re carrying something,” said Trevor. “Can anyone make out what they are?”

“Yeah, I’ve got eyes on them,” said Martin. “It’s…oh fuck…”

Owen saw it at the same time as the grenadier. They were cages. Cages full of–

“Grimm,” he whispered.

For a few seconds, there was silence.

Then Hitoshi spoke.

“Get the people inside.”

He’d said it quietly. When none of them responded, he turned around and started waving his arms at the dozens of bystanders.

“Get inside! Get indoors, now! White Fang attack incoming!”

That got them moving again. It was still disorganised, but instead of running with no intended end, they were going into the buildings. Doors started slamming shut. Some who were too slow to get into their desired havens started banging their fists on the entrances and windows. Others just looked around, frantically searching for somewhere else to hide.

“What the hell’s the Navy doing?” said Annette. “How’d they let them through?”

As if on cue, her rhetorical question was followed by the distant sound of charging laser batteries and particle lances. The corners of Owen’s vision turned red, and he awaited the blinding beams that would herald the terrorist crafts’ timely disintegration.

But nothing happened. There were sounds of explosions, but they were too far away. Their 3rd and 7th Aerial Fleets were already engaged somewhere else. What exactly had warranted them to pull all of over fifty of their ships away from downtown Vale when a clear invasion force was at their doorstep was beyond him. Vale’s own Navy was nowhere to be seen.

“Guys…they’re getting closer,” said Grant unnecessarily.

“Where’s the fucking AA (Anti-Aircraft)?” said Trevor. “There’s gotta be over thirty batteries that have a shot on them!”

His only answer was the rising volume of jets, as the fleet rapidly drew closer. Owen watched in horror as, one by one, they descended and began dropping their living, breathing, snarling cargo all over the city. He could hear the crunches of metal on concrete and asphalt drawing closer…closer…closer…

They should have run. They should have been garrisoning a building, trying to prepare for the coming onslaught. But they’d all been so fixated on the mesmerising display of dozens – no, hundreds – of these cages plummeting from the heavens. Even Hitoshi, after instructing the people to get indoors, had turned back to watch the spectacle. This couldn’t be happening. It just co–

“ _Oh fuck_!”

Owen jerked up in surprise at Martin’s shout. He was pointing up. The airships were almost on top of them now, and one had let loose its cage. Momentum conserved, it was sailing forward, as well as downwards…about to land right on top of them.

None of them had to think long for what to do next.

“Run!”

“Fucking scatter!”

“Go! Go! Go!”

Owen winced at the sudden exertion on his legs. He swung his arms, which were still cradling his M29, left and right. His boots hit the road, then the sidewalk. He could only hope none of his squadmates had been stupid enough to run backwards, right in the path of where the cage would land and most likely tumble. His feet caught something, maybe a crack, and fell forwards. The breath was knocked out of his lungs and his helmet hit the ground.

Momentarily stunned, he felt the world shake. Something akin to a clap of thunder forced its way into his dazed senses. Blinking rapidly, he rolled on his back. A sick feeling in his gut caused him to frantically reach for his weapon, which had thankfully not flown too far away.

In front of him, easily looming at over two and a half metres, was a monster. Pitch black fur broken up by bony, chitin-like plates provided a disturbingly menacing silhouette. Claws that were thicker than three of his fingers put together protruded out of large, meaty paws. The skin bulged from muscles honed by years of survival and hunting. Spikes protruding from its back peaked over its shoulders and face, which was framed by a mask of bone that was lit by a pair of burning, soulless eyes.

_Ursa…_

Everything slowed down to a crawl. Owen’s hands moved on their own. One hand going for the trigger, and his other grasping for the bipod, which had been folded into the receiver assembly, he levelled the LMG at the Ursa as it let out a deafening roar and lunged. He should have been intimidated, but he felt so calm that, in the oasis that his adrenaline had provided, he actually ended up taking a deep breath. It seemed like he had all the time in the world to line up the shot. Not that he actually had to use the iron sights, or even aim that much either – his firing position, weapon handling, and form were all atrocious right now. Yet, the Ursa’s size and proximity almost flat out prohibited him from missing. But Owen didn’t want to just blow off a limb or graze its side. He wanted to hit it in its centre mass.

Only when he squeezed the trigger did he realised he hadn’t aligned the stock with his shoulder. The bolt slammed the first cartridge into the chamber, followed almost instantly by the firing pin hammering the primer and igniting its Dust propellant. He felt the punch of the stock’s synthetic material against his helmet – or at least it would have been his helmet if he’d lowered the muffler to cover his mouth. The _crack_ of the immense pressurisation pushing the bullet out of the barrel rang out just before he felt something tapping at his chin. Were it not for his aura, it would have probably been a lot more painful. In a fraction of a millisecond, the round crossed the distance between him and the Ursa and punctured its front.

He kept his finger clamped down on the trigger, fully aware of the additional knocks to the head he was going to take. The recoil shifted his aim up, raking the abomination from centre to skull. The M29 shook in his grasp as round after round was discharged at over eight hundred metres per second.

His head was forced back to look straight up, due to his weapon’s stock continuously hammering away at his jaw. To him, it felt like he’d latched onto the trigger for hours. In reality, it was just under four seconds – about twice as long as a ‘standard’ machine gun burst.

Time, or his perception of it, returned to normal. When he didn’t feel the agonising pain of the Ursa’s claws or teeth ripping into his form, he craned his neck forward.

It turned out he hadn’t been the only one to shoot the Grimm. Alongside the dark red blood and ashen smoke pouring out of the holes he’d shot in its front, there was a series of wounds in its right side that had come from more small arms. Fortunately, it appeared the rest of his fireteam had been just as quick and committed to preserving his life as he had been.

Annette came into his field of view, her M90 pointed at the Ursa, who was still wheezing out a few laboured breaths. She aimed at its head and let off a trio of shots, with barely half a second between each squeeze of the trigger. The loud _pops_ of her weapon coincided with the spurts of blood that came out of the beast’s forehead, as it finally fell silent.

Owen pushed himself up so that his elbows were supporting his upper body’s weight on the ground. Annette kept her weapon trained on the now evaporating corpse, as his squadmates took up positions around them, bracing their weapons against abandoned cars, benches and other hard surfaces. Martin appeared and offered him a hand. He took it, saying a quick “thanks”, and returned to his feet.

“You have to admit,” said Martin, “they’re getting pretty creative now.”

Owen just grunted in response. If there was one thing he and the rest of Atlas’ soldiers could attribute to the White Fang, it was their resourcefulness. Possessing nowhere near the manpower or production capacity as any of The Big Four, the White Fang had had two general options: either avoid open and protracted engagements with any of the Kingdoms, or search for allies that could aid them in their fight. And while the Grimm could hardly be classified as anyone’s ally, they were most certainly everyone’s enemy. Time and again, the White Fang had utilised the creatures as a distraction or unintentional vanguard to support their militant strikes, with the Breach of Vale being the most recent and devastating example. But carpet-bombing a city with Grimm had been a prospect none had been willing to even consider as possible, much less feasible – there were just too many points of failure, from rounding up the Grimm to begin with, all the way to somehow slipping past their ships and automated defences. And yet, here they were.

To his right, he was aware of Grant muttering to himself.

“This is crazy. Since when did we have to worry about these fucking animals falling out of the sky? Sergeant. We need to get out of here. We haven’t got comms or ammo and if we stay on these streets we’re gonna get–“

“I hear you, Grant,” said Hitoshi. Owen was surprised to hear him trying to placate his squadmate, rather than shouting at him to get a grip. “We’ll get through this. I just need you to focus and stay with me until we can get some help. Martin. Have you got a connection yet?”

“Standby. I think I’ve got it,” said Martin, who’d returned to fiddling with his helmet control panel after helping Owen up. “Locksmith 1-2-Actual. This is Locksmith 1-2-2. Do you copy? Over.”

Martin stiffened for a few seconds. Then, Owen heard him say, “Wilco, 1-2-Actual. Out.”

When the grenadier turned to face them, he was smiling. “Sergeant! I’ve got them! Switch to Alpha 155.”

Hitoshi nodded, and he and the rest of the fireteam made the necessary adjustments on their control panels.

“Locksmith 1-2-Actual. This is Locksmith 1-2-2,” said Hitoshi. “Do you copy? Over.”

“1-2-2,” came Staff Sergeant Pechore’s voice over the radio. “This is 1-2-Actual. Solid copy. Good to hear you. Over.”

As Hitoshi conversed with Pechore, Owen noticed his breathing coming erratically. His little brush with death and the residue of the chemicals that had accordingly flooded his veins had left his body in a state of fight-or-flight. His brain was alert and prepared for, if not necessarily wanting, more action.

Being left in such a condition allowed him, when a salvo of bullets suddenly pinged against their auras, to grab Martin and return to a prone position on his stomach.


	3. Invasion III

**Captain Chem Avrora**

**Beherzt-Class Cruiser: _ASA Einheit  
_** **Medium Task Unit 10, Task Force 5  
** **3** rd Aerial Fleet

**1935 Hours**

Without thinking, Chem raised an arm to shield his face as, for a split second, night turned into day. The bridge’s viewports worked quickly to polarise themselves and give his squinting eyes a blissful respite from the sudden flare.

Around him, he could see his crew similarly flinching. They were dazed and confused, just like him.

The 3rd Fleet had been holding in a steady ring around Amity Colosseum when the attack klaxons had started to blare. They’d all seen and heard what had happened in the singles-round, and the speech that had followed. Their CCT Network had gone down after that, locking them, and the 7th Aerial Fleet, up with indecision. Some ships had attempted to communicate with signal lights and radio instead, but everything was just so cluttered and chaotic that there was no one unifying voice to direct their formations.

If nothing else, they could thank the Grimm attack alert, which had resulted in the majority of their ships turning east to face the oncoming threat. Then, their sensors had started picking up an enormous contingent of airships inbound from the northeast, and their makeshift line had started to fall apart again. Orders and inquiries were coming from everywhere, from the Rear Admirals gathering their task forces, to Captains who hadn’t heard their orders trying to organise their own response force with the ships adjacent to them, to Admiral Eleanor Hollandale and Vice Admiral Kenchiro Yamazaki attempting to coordinate their respective fleets. Clusterfuck didn’t even begin to describe their sorry state right now.

He was about to order the Weapons Officer, Lieutenant Phillip Remar to contact Fire Control and ask for them to give a status on their weapons – if he didn’t know where to go fight, he’d at least ensure they _could_ fight at all – when someone had fired.

It had been a ship to their right. The intensity of the light suggested it was one of their larger ones. He called out, “Starboard Lookout. Give me an update.”

Shipman Nikhil Harkov, responded, a slight tremble underlining his voice.

“S-Sir…It was the _Implacable_ …It fired on one of our own.”

Chem’s jaw slackened. He glanced at the bridge’s holotable, but found it still hadn’t rebooted itself after the CCT went offline. So, he rose from his chair and strode over to the starboard viewport.

Sure enough, right before his eyes was the descending form of a fellow Beherzt-class Cruiser. Flames spewed out of various holes and blown-out windows dotting its superstructure. Its engines flickered, with each interval between functionality and silence growing longer by the second. Near its bow, he could make out its name and number, painted in white to contrast against its dark grey hull: _CA-021 – Sicherheit_. Hovering barely a hundred metres away and above it was one of the 3rd Aerial Fleet’s two prized Indomitable-class Dreadnoughts, the _ASA Implacable_. One of its bow-oriented particle lances glowed with the bright red residue of activated Dust. There was no doubt what Harkov had said was true. Friendly fire.

His eyes widened as he saw the _Sicherheit_ , its anti-gravitational systems now completely offline, falling at increasingly high speeds, right into the path of another Cruiser, the _ASA Edelweiss_.

“Oh my gods,” said Harkov from next to him. “They’re going to–“

He never got to finish his sentence. Steel rammed into steel. Hulls crumpled and shattered under the kinetic force. External lights died as internal sparks morphed into fully-fledged fires. For a moment, the _Edelweiss_ shuddered, as if it was trying to hold itself together. Then it was wracked by a chain of explosions that blossomed outward from the point where it had been struck by the _Sicherheit_. They travelled along its superstructure, engulfing the port weapons, the chine, the bridge, until with one final, colossal detonation, it was ripped into two.

Chem could only watch in mortified fixation as the two vessels continued their downward descent. Like a nightmare that just wouldn’t end, he saw them veer slowly away from Amity Colosseum, and into Beacon Academy. Fortunately, just from visually observing their trajectories, he could tell they wouldn’t hit the campus. But it didn’t make their crash that much less horrifying. The two ships ploughed into the greenery beneath, unearthing trees and foliage in a set of violent scars that marred the earth and marked their dying plummet.

For a moment, there was no sound. No feeling. He was numb with disbelief. What the fuck had just happened? Why had the _Implacable_ fired on one of their own ships? He tried to speak, to give orders, to ask questions he knew his crew wouldn’t have the answer to, but a lump in his throat stopped him. He tried again, this time swallowing what little saliva that hadn’t already dried up in his mouth.

“Remar…”

The Weapons Officer didn’t acknowledge him. (not that he’d given much of an order to acknowledge in the first place). He was about to take a deep breath, turn around and try again, when someone shouted, “It’s going to fire again!”

He jerked back to the viewport, just in time to see the _Implacable_ ’s second particle lance whining up. As if he thought it would stop the firing sequence, he slammed his palm against the reinforced glass, the cool surface providing a welcome burst of feeling back into his stupefied senses.

Reaching its crescendo, the Dreadnought let loose another ruby-red beam. In the blink of an eye, it cut the sky in half and hit its target, the Lancer-class Destroyer _ASA Ridend_. From stern to aft, the boiling line of energy gutted the smaller ship. Whereas the Cruiser _Sicherheit_ had at least maintained a semblance of structural integrity after being hit, the _Ridend_ just came apart. Bulkheads and plating were blown off with spewing fires that reminded him of volcanic eruptions. Layers and decks either melted into each other and fused together, or just sloughed off the scorched Destroyer’s frame. The _Ridend_ , in effect, began imploding in on itself, with over half its mass evaporating or being shorn off in less than five seconds. Chem saw its reactor become exposed to the outer elements, its throbbing luminescence symbolising the ship’s beating heart. For the briefest of time, it winked seemingly out of existence.

Then…there was light.

If the particle lances had given the passing illusion of daytime, the prompt meltdown of the _Ridend_ ’s reactor gave Chem a glimpse of the sun itself, in all its dazzling, resplendent glory. No amount of polarisation could hide the horrific sight of one of their ships vanishing in a such an appallingly magnificent inferno that would have cowed the devil itself.

_No more…_

“No more!” Chem roared. He spun about and marched back to the holotable, barking orders all the way.

“Helmsman! Line us up parallel with the _Implacable_ , distance fifteen hundred metres, altitude twelve hundred metres! Lee Helmsman! Match that Dreadnought’s speed!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Comm-O (Communications Officer, Lieutenant Frederick Halifare). Get me Rear Admiral Waldrich. I don’t care how – use a carrier pigeon if you have to – just get me that man’s attention!”

“Aye, sir! _Vornehm_ , this is _Einheit–_ ”

“Weapons! Ready all batteries and pods one through eight. Target: the _Implacable_. Lasers first. Missiles second.”

“Aye, sir!”

Their fleets were paralysed. No one was doing anything, least of all anything in coordination. Chem didn’t know what had happened on the _Implacable_ to cause it to fire on their own ships, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that with the Grimm coming from one direction and the unknowns coming from the other, they needed to get their shit together _now_.

Aside from the vicious damage that it had already caused to its own fleet, the _Implacable_ had been acting strangely. The Atlas Navy’s Indomitable-class Dreadnought was the pinnacle of their military aerial vessels. Along with its Mk 990 Twin Particle Lances, it possessed twenty-eight missile pods, Four Mk72 HLBs (Heavy Laser Batteries), and twenty smaller point defence guns. In a three-dimensional space, it had a weapon pointed, or able to point, in literally every conceivable direction. Yet, it hadn’t used them. While there was no denying the firepower of its particle lances, the absence of its other weapons indicated to Chem that whoever had taken over the Dreadnought didn’t have the manpower to fully staff the ship. That meant, as long as they stayed out of the frontal firing cone, they were safe. Or maybe they were planning to lure some more of them into a potential broadside. He had to accept that chance.

“Captain. I’ve got a connection with the Rear Admiral,” said Lieutenant Halifare.

Chem nodded. If the holotable and CCT Network had been functioning, he could have had a real-time face-to-face with Rear Admiral Luther Waldrich – their Task Unit leader aboard the _ASA Vornehm_. As of now, he’d have to be content with relaying his message through the Communications Officer. He chose his words carefully and concisely.

“ _Implacable_ is hostile. Moving to engage. Requesting assistance. Out.”

“Aye, sir.”

His Beherzt-class Cruiser had a modest armament compared to the _Implacable_ , with no particle lances of its own to speak of, and only three Mk 58 MLBs (Medium Laser Batteries), as opposed to its four heavies. It would have to do.

As the Helmsman, Shipman Wrighton, maneuvered the _Einheit_ alongside the _Implacable_ , Chem put his hands behind his back, standing at parade rest. Ship-to-ship combat had been a largely theoretical exercise in the Navy up to this point. During the Great War, the Big Four had at most utilised small, comparatively primitive, fixed-wing aircraft with propellors, that might as well have been paper kites compared to their modern jets and anti-gravitational systems. Nevertheless, they had demonstrated their critical role in combined arms warfare, and the importance of being able to bypass and strike military and industrial assets beyond the front lines. In the eighty years that had followed the end of the war, Atlas had sought to capitalise on the potential of air power, seeking to develop bigger, stronger, more lethal craft that could ensure its security against both the Grimm, and other threats. The other Kingdoms hadn’t been as enthusiastic, having demobilised their militaries and passing the martial torch to the Huntsmen Academies. As such, Atlas had been left unchallenged in its naval dominance, whether it be seaborne or aerial, for decades. Only after the Fall of Mountain Glenn, and Vale’s pledge to remilitarise itself, had they seen a serious contender – a contender that they themselves had agreed to supply and arm.

Of course, with Vale’s gratitude for their assistance in rearming their populace, the two Kingdoms had never come to blows after the Great War. And what enemies Atlas had faced since then had possessed nothing close to the size of its Dreadnoughts and Carriers (at least not in the air; water-based Grimm were another matter entirely). Atlas’ naval doctrine had thus focused on facing swarms of smaller enemies, such as helicopters, fighters, and flying Grimm, the biggest of which struggled to even match their larger vessels. Going up against a capital ship, as much as Chem didn’t want to admit it, meant he was way out of his depth. He just couldn’t let his crew know that.

“Fire Control reports all batteries and pods one through eight are ready to fire, sir,” said Lieutenant Remar. “Be advised, targeting systems are blind.”

“Acknowledged,” replied Chem. “Focus on the _Implacable_ ’s anti-gravs. Fire on my command.”

“Aye, sir.”

Were he fighting a smaller ship, Chem might have been more confident that he’d be able to settle with a single salvo. However, the Indomitable-class Dreadnought was one of three ship types in Atlas to be built with a DEB (Disintegrative Energy Barrier), with the other types being the Nexus-class Carrier and Resolute-class Command-Carrier. Without their own particle lances, there was no guarantee they’d be able to break through the protective layer with a single strike. They’d just have to hammer on it until it overloaded, and then move onto the titanium alloy plating that lay underneath that. He could have ordered for fire control to aim for the _Implacable_ ’s bridge. But without the CCT Network to provide the necessary data to guide their weapons, they’d be effectively eyeballing their shots. The _Implacable_ ’s four sets of Mk 262 Heracles Anti-Gravitational Systems were a much bigger target, and would send the Dreadnought plummeting if they could destroy or even cripple them.

They were now approximately fifteen hundred metres from the _Implacable_. In naval terms, they might as well be within knife-fighting range. Whoever had taken over the Dreadnought must have known what Chem was up to, as the gargantuan ship began to pivot in an attempt to bring its recharging particle lances to bear on the _Einheit_. It appeared Chem’s theory about its other weapons being offline was correct. In a move meant to bolster his own resolve, as well as that of the bridge, he drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath.

“Weapons! Fire!”

“Aye, sir! Fire Control. Weapons loose! I say again, weapons loose!”

The steady whine of laser batteries charging lasted for all of four seconds before a trio of blood red beams left the _Einheit_ ’s turrets and flew across the night sky. In the blink of an eye, it crossed the minimal expanse between the two ships and struck the _Implacable_. The blue-white spherical outline of the Dreadnought’s DEB flickered into view, with the colour being most intense at the places the lasers had struck. Almost immediately afterwards, there was a round of dull _thumps_ as two dozen missiles ignited their fuel stores and left their pods. Through the starboard viewport, he saw their trails of exhaust signify the warheads’ trajectory, culminating in a blossoming array of explosives against the shielding. Chem noticed, this time, the DEB’s colour was slightly fainter, signifying that while his Cruiser hadn’t done any lasting damage to the _Implacable_ , its attacks hadn’t been entirely ineffective either.

“Weapons,” he called out. “Repeat.”

“Aye, sir. Fire Control. Repeat, repeat.”

He wanted the same salvo on the same target. This was going to be a death of a thousand cuts. During this time, the _Implacable_ had continued rotating. Chem estimated that after another twenty degrees, their particle lances would have their firing angle. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Lee Helmsman. Full reverse. Helmsman. Keep us parallel as best you can.”

“Aye, sir. Full reverse.”

“Aye, sir.”

There was a slight lurch, as the _Einheit_ started backing away from the _Implacable_ ’s menacing firepower. But even as they initiated their evasion, Chem could see they wouldn’t be quick enough. He should have positioned them closer to the Dreadnought, so that it would’ve had to turn further to get a proper bead on them. He could see one of the lances flaring, Dust charging up to strike them. The _Einheit_ didn’t have a DEB. And, as demonstrated by the _Sicherheit_ , even a glancing blow would be catastrophic to their hull integrity.

“Weapons,” he said, making every effort to push back the urge to let his voice waver. “How long until Fire Control is ready?”

Before the Lieutenant could answer, there was more red – this time on the port side. Laser battery fire. Nine crimson streaks. Three additional _Beherzt_ -class Cruisers spearheaded by the _ASA Vornehm_. It appeared Rear Admiral Waldrich had successfully rallied the rest of the Task Unit. Their medium guns cut through the night and splashed against the _Implacable_. Missiles followed soon after, their howling munitions pounding the rogue Dreadnought from aft to stern. From Chem’s point of view, it looked as if burning rain was falling into a pond, creating countless ripples that overlapped with each other. The cursed DEB flickered and flared, its cyan shielding growing dimmer and more transparent by the moment, but never quite dissipating like they so desperately needed it to.

In the dark backdrop of their skirmish, Chem noticed more ships from the 3rd Aerial Fleet manoeuvring themselves towards the _Implacable_. His initial message to Waldrich had spread quickly. The radio transmissions, which had until now been a garbled mess of panicked confusion, finally formed into a coherent reverberation.

“ _Implacable_ is hostile.”

Once more, night became day. But this time, it was not to the Atlesians’ detriment. From several directions, a flood of fire poured in. And though Chem knew it wasn’t possible, he could have sworn that the fire was laced with something more tangible than Dust or metal. It felt like emotion.

_How dare you turn on us._

_How dare you kill our brothers and sisters._

_How dare you continue to live and breathe._

Lasers and missiles pounded the _Implacable_. Splotches of white formed as the DEB, overwhelmed as it was, continued its inanimate task of making sure the Dreadnought kept running. Through what might as well have been a wall of firepower, Chem nevertheless saw a pair of red points, brighter than any other in the fleet, burn a set of demonic eyes into his irises. It was still going to fire.

The final, pathetic flicker signalling the DEB’s cessation of functionality coincided almost perfectly of the _Implacable_ letting loose one last time with its particle lances. As the scorching lines of judgement raced towards their targets, Chem felt a pang of guilt for being thankful the rest of the fleet’s engagement had turned the _Implacable_ ’s attention off his own vessel.

Two ships were hit: the _ASA Ummell Harkin_ , and the _ASA Inexorable_ (the 3rd Aerial Fleet’s second Indomitable-class Dreadnought). This time, acutely aware of the _Implacable_ ’s compromised status, both were at least able to attempt evasive manoeuvres. But ultimately, neither could escape the fire launched their way. The _Ummell Harkin_ ’s bow ceased to exist, leaving behind a glowing cross-section of molten metal that was quickly succeeded by its descent towards the ground. The _Inexorable_ was more fortunate, its own DEB bearing the brunt of the particle lance. The protective shield glowed as it tried to absorb as much of the energy as possible. After around three seconds, it disappeared, energy reserves spent. The _Inexorable_ shuddered as its underbelly was raked by the particle lance. Fire and liquidated debris spewed downwards, as if the ship was like a hellish cloud raining a blaze of damnation on whoever dared to seek shelter under it. For a moment, it felt like the entire fleet was holding their breath, staring at their capital ship, waiting to see it plummet like the rest.

But the _Inexorable_ held. Its anti-gravitational systems continued burning a bright white. It remained aloft. For how long it would stay that way, no one knew. But it was still there. And that was enough.

“Batteries and missile pods ready, sir!”

The Weapons Officer’s update was all Chem needed to hear.

“Weapons! Fire!”

“Aye, sir! Fire Control! Weapons loose!”

Retribution lanced out of the _Einheit_ in the form of lasers and warheads. With its DEB depleted, he saw that they were finally starting to pierce the _Implacable_. Red energy burned noticeable holes into its gunmetal grey hull, while blossoms of yellow and orange left behind plating that was scorched and ridden with shrapnel. Additional salvos from the rest of the fleet followed suit, their guns and missiles tearing away at the Dreadnought with reckless abandon fuelled by desperation and rage. Fighters and attack craft from the fleet’s Carrier Air Wing and Marine Aviation Combat Elements started coming in to make their runs. In disorganised formations and waves that continued to reflect their crippled communication lines, they nevertheless unloaded their bombs, missiles, autocannons, and even their nose- and chin-mounted machine guns, adamant that not another ship would fall to the rogue monstrosity.

Bit by bit, the _Implacable_ started coming apart. A particularly eagle-eyed (or lucky) shot detonated one of its ammunition stores for its portside weapons. Sporadic explosions dotted its hull, creating a cluster of chain reactions that engulfed a noticeable portion of its superstructure. And yet, it continued to fly.

“Another salvo ready, sir!”

“Fire!”

“Aye, sir! Fire Control! Weapons loose!”

The _Einheit_ fired its third volley, this time connecting with the _Implacable_ ’s anti-gravitational systems. The laser batteries vaporised one of the four, while their missiles went wide and splashed ‘harmlessly’ against the hull. Not for the first, and most certainly not for the last, time, Chem cursed their CCT Network’s shutdown. And then he realised his mistake.

The _Implacable_ would fall. Of that, there was no doubt. It was just too heavy to stay in the air without all of its Heracles systems. But, for the moment, it was still flight capable, and in possession of its thruster engines – thruster engines that had been burning at maximum capacity ever since the rest of the fleet had started firing.

“Captain,” called out the Helmsman. “If we stay our course, we’ll be heading right into the Carrier Task Group.”

With a chill running up his spine, Chem wrenched his gaze from the starboard window and looked forward. So concentrated had he been on bringing down the _Implacable_ , he’d made the mistake of losing sight of the battlespace around him. Sure enough, there was a group of seven ships at their aft: four Destroyers, two Escort Frigates, and the _ASA Stratum_ – Admiral Hollandale’s flagship and the 3rd Aerial Fleet’s Nexus-class Carrier. Less than five thousand metres away, and closing fast, he could see the ships veering left and right, attempting to get out of the _Implacable_ ’s way. But the rogue Dreadnought was putting every bit of power and control it had left to maintain a fix on the _Stratum_.

While the 3rd Fleet’s current state was far from ideal, the loss of the _Stratum_ would ensure a shift from barely-contained-chaos to absolute anarchy. The death of Admiral Hollandale would behead the 3rd Fleet’s chain of command. Normally, the torch would be taken up by either Vice Admiral Thomas Ellaine (head of Task Force 5) or Vice Admiral Savina Markovka (head of Task Force 6). The former was supposedly on the _Implacable_ , which was currently trying to assassinate Hollandale, while the latter was on the _Inexorable_ , which while still airborne, was severely damaged and most likely riddled with casualties from the hit it had taken from the particle lance. And even if they had a clear-cut successor, without a stable communications network, no one would know who exactly that person was. And they still had the incoming Grimm, and unknown group of flyers, to worry about. In addition, their Carrier Air Wing would be stranded, and either forced to fly off in hopes that they could reach either the 7th Aerial Fleet’s _Resolute_ Command-Carrier or a nearby Valean airbase, or simply just stay in the fight until their fuel ran out, forcing them to attempt a belly-landing. Losing the _Stratum_ would cost them more lives, equipment and time than they could afford right now. And apparently, whoever was manning the _Implacable_ knew that too (or maybe they were just looking to annihilate the biggest target they had left).

All too helplessly, Chem watched as the Dreadnought pressed on, its hull sporting multiple gouges and pocket-marked by a series of burning fires that billowed lines of smoke in its wake.

“Captain,” said Lieutenant Halifare. “Incoming message from the _Jonathan Winters_.”

The _Jonathan Winters_ was one of three Matthew Evergreen-class Escort Frigates attached to the _Stratum_ , each of which was named after a famous deceased military leader. One of them, the _Ummell Harkin_ , had already been shot down by the _Implacable_. Of the remaining two, one (the _Shin Jang-il_ ) had given the _Implacable_ a wide birth, all the while sending volleys in a vain attempt to alter its course off of their carrier. But the _Jonathan Winters_ had, instead of moving sideways or backwards, began accelerating forwards, right in the Dreadnought’s path. With a sinking feeling, Chem knew what was going to happen before he acknowledged the Comm-O.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Aye, sir. ‘ _Einheit_. This is _Jonathan Winters_. Moving to intercept _Implacable_ for tactical collision. Advise you break off. Out.’”

Chem grimaced at the clinical wording of the Escort Frigate’s Captain.

_Four thousand metres._

Five ships had been lost or crippled in just as many minutes – hundreds of lives snuffed out by that godforsaken Dreadnought, and most likely hundreds more trapped in the burning hulks that were left in lieu of its rampage.

_Three thousand metres._

“Helmsman,” he said. “Hard port and two hundred metres up. Get us out of the way.”

“Aye, sir,” came the muted response.

_Two thousand metres._

“Comm-O. Respond to the _Jonathan Winters_ : ‘Acknowledged…”

Chem paused, not sure how to finish off what may very well be the last message the crew of the Escort Frigate would hear. After a quick deliberation, he decided to keep it simple, and use the Atlas Navy’s motto.

“…Fear no evil. Yield no strength. _Einheit_ out.’”

“Aye, sir.”

A silence fell over the bridge as they waited for the collision that would occur in the next few seconds. With bated breath, Chem continued estimating the distance between the two ships.

_One thousand._

_Five hundred._

_Two hundred._

_Fifty._

_Zero._

In contrast to the _Sicherheit_ ’s unintentional ramming of the _Edelweiss_ , which had been made at a perpendicular angle, the _Jonathan Winters_ ‘ crash into the _Implacable_ ’s aft was made diagonally, intended to divert its course through brute force. Like a car going against a semi-trailer, the Escort Frigate’s front half crumpled, with pieces of its hull outright shattering. Chem clenched his jaw as he saw its bridge fall into the mangled superstructure, which was soon wracked by the explosions of detonating internal munitions. Without further observation, Chem knew that the _Jonathan Winters_ was gone.

But it was enough.

The _Implacable_ veered left and down, its trajectory sufficiently altered to avoid hitting the _Stratum_. Its fate sealed, the Dreadnought completed its final descent, its gravitational systems finally giving out to let over eight thousand tonnes of warship slam into the earth. An eruption of dirt heralded its impact, the ensuing shockwave strong enough to uproot trees and send them sailing for hundreds of metres.

At last, the _Implacable_ was dead.

Not content to leave it be, multiple ships from the 3rd Fleet continued firing on the downed Dreadnought. Chem couldn’t blame them, and was about to order the _Einheit_ to join in when the Lieutenant Halifare called out, “Fleetwide transmission from the _Stratum_ , Captain.”

“Relay it, Comm-O.”

“Aye, sir. ‘All ships of the 3rd Aerial Fleet. This is Admiral Hollandale. Acknowledge that Vale is under attack. Task Unit Leaders are ordered to hold position and allow all vessels to converge on their ship. Await further. Out.’”

Chem saw what the Admiral was doing. If they couldn’t keep up a solid stream of communications, the next best thing was to cluster their ships into smaller groups that could more easily communicate with each other. After reforming their ranks, they could then receive the necessary orders to coordinate their fleets.

And so, with the heavy realisation that this nightmare of an evening was just getting started, he ordered the Helmsman to steer the _Einheit_ towards the _Vornehm_.


	4. Invasion IV

**Specialist Owen Rockwell**

**2 nd Squad, 1st Platoon, A Company  
** **2** nd Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment  
**15 th Infantry Brigade Combat Team  
** **4 th Infantry Division**

**2004 Hours**

Owen’s M29 shook as he let loose a burst. His target – a group of three White Fang insurgents – dove to the ground as rounds whizzed by their forms and impacted their auras. Instead of staying put, one of them popped his head out almost immediately after, only to cry out in alarm as he was hit in the face by fire from the rest of the fireteam. His aura fell to rounds coming from multiple sources, and Owen saw puffs of red come out of his skull.

In their mortified observation of the Grimm being dropped across the city, they hadn’t even considered that the White Fang themselves might start unloading their own troops. And to be honest, he was still having a hard time believing it. What sane person would want to jump into an area that was crawling with these monsters?

The White Fang was no conventional military. It relied almost exclusively on irregular warfare to compensate for its inferior resources, training facilities, and equipment. The few times they had engaged head-on (as they were doing now with the current invasion), they’d suffered immense losses. Perhaps they thought they could inflict enough of a blow to cow the Atlesians and Valeans with shock value. But even so, launching such a wanton assault on such a big target as a Kingdom’s capital reflected an attitude ranging from recklessly bold to outright insane.

Although, as he felt a round impact his shoulder which signalled another group of attackers off to his right, Owen had to begrudgingly acknowledge that, as crazy as the White Fang’s strategy might be, it was currently working.

Their transmission with the rest of 2nd Squad had come to an abrupt halt with the commencement of the firefight. And with communications in disarray, they were effectively cut off from the rest of Atlas’ forces. And while their better armour, weapons, and training would definitely give them an edge against the ragtag terrorists, eventually they would be overrun.

“Five more guys! Underground entry on our left!” came Trevor’s voice from the internal speakers in his helmet. The start of the firefight had seen all of them lower their mufflers to shield their mouths. As such, they were all using their radios to talk with each other. Thankfully, this form of communication had been established with a pre-set frequency, meaning they didn’t have to fumble about with syncing all their helmets.

Owen was torn between addressing the new threat, continuing to suppress the White Fang in front of him, or swinging right to face whoever had clipped him. In the end, he chose to face right, reasoning that if he didn’t kill the guy that had a bead on him, he wouldn’t be alive much longer to shoot the others.

Four White Fang members were crouching behind a string of abandoned cars. From the sound of the guns they were firing, he guessed they were wielding Ocelot SMGs (submachine guns) – a compact piece of stamped metal that had been produced en masse and adopted by Mistral during the Great War. Being a cheap, low maintenance small arm with very few moving parts, it had exploded into popularity after the war’s end, being bought up in the hundreds by police and militias that had survived the transition to a Huntsmen-oriented defensive strategy, as well as individuals looking to collect or use the gun for their own means. Unfortunately, over eighty years later, it was showing its age: namely its piss poor accuracy at anything beyond ten metres, especially when going full auto as the White Fang were doing right now. Owen suppressed a snort as he saw one of them hold his Ocelot in one hand, tilting the gun sideways as he unloaded his magazine.

_Amateurs…_

Not that it meant he could just point and laugh at them. The bullet that skimmed off his aura should be reminder enough that chance could be as deadly a son of a bitch as any amount of precision. He lay flat on the ground, bracing his M29’s bipod on the asphalt. Zeroing in with his iron sights, he squeezed the trigger.

A cacophony of rounds left his LMG, riddling the cars with visible holes (a reminder that vehicles, unless fitted with at least five centimetres of reinforced composite plating, were in most cases _not_ bulletproof). Half of the gunmen scrambled away from his fire like flies from a swatter, while the other half remained as they were, even letting the rounds hit them.

This was a classic mistake: thinking that because you had your own personalised force-field, that you could just walk through a deluge of ordinance and come out without a scratch. Owen remembered how several recruits who’d had that exact attitude in Boot Camp. The Drill Sergeants had thrown him and the rest of the platoon in the pit for a fire exercise with paintball weapons. The rate at which those NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers) had torn through their auras and started hammering away at their fleshy bodies had been downright terrifying. Owen himself had been left with a heavily bruised leg, which he’d carelessly stuck out from a stack of barrels he’d been crouching behind. Just remembering the panic from feeling the dull taps on his limb quickly morph into stinging pains as his aura shattered was enough to make his toes curl in discomfort. After half an hour of the hellish crossfire, around forty recruits had been left to stumble their way out of the pit, black and blue in both the literal and figurative senses. Very few had remained arrogant enough to think they could rely purely on their aura to keep them alive.

Unfortunately for the two White Fang in his view, their training had apparently amounted to little more than being given a gun, a uniform, and some words of righteous indignation that had fostered confidence, but not intelligence. Every fifth bullet in Owen’s M29’s ammo belt was a tracer round, which gave him the occasional streak of bright yellow to give him a general idea of where he was aiming without having to continue squinting down the iron sights. He used them to ‘walk’ his rounds to the two gunmen, shifting his arms in incremental amounts to sweep their torsos with his fire. Eight metres to his right, Annette had levelled her rifle, letting out calculated, single shots to add to his automatic bursts.

The White Fang mandated that all their members wear a Grimm-esque mask. It was meant to be a symbol of humanity forcing the Faunus to become monsters to defend themselves, and perhaps a source of intimidation to whoever they were terrorising. To Owen, it just looked tacky. And although he couldn’t see the eyes of his target because of the mask, he imagined them widening in fear as what looked like little pieces of glass flew out from his body in all directions, symbolising the depletion of his aura. Almost immediately afterwards, he went limp as his M29’s bullets connected with and penetrated his torso. The second White Fang member glanced to where his colleague had been standing, just in time for Owen to let off another burst at him. He raised his arm in a vain attempt to stop the rounds. All it did was give him the horrifying sight of a hail of bullets shattering his aura, then punching through his hand before they lodged themselves into his throat. Clawing at his punctured trachea, he fell to his knees, then out of sight.

Owen let his finger off the trigger for a second, before resuming fire with another burst at the line of cars. He didn’t know where the other two White Fang had gone. Maybe they were hunkered down, waiting for him to reload. Or maybe they were in the middle of crawling away to another spot, where they would surprise him at a new angle.

He didn’t get to contemplate the problem any further, as Hitoshi called out, “Owen! Swing that 29 to your six!”

He glanced at Annette, who nodded, non-verbally telling him “I’ve got this side,”, then got up from his prone position. Yelling, “Roger!” he kept his head low and back hunched as he picked up his weapon and pivoted to face what had been his rear. He saw Martin, crouched behind an aluminium street bin, trying to keep as low a profile as possible as bullets cut through the thin metal. Hitoshi was on his stomach, shooting underneath a jeep’s undercarriage. To their right, facing another direction were Trevor and Grant, who were firing at a third group.

Martin and Hitoshi were facing off against four of the five White Fang that Trevor had pointed out earlier. One was already dead, two bullet holes in his torso and one in his head demonstrating a perfect execution of the Mozambique Drill.

In the interest of keeping their fireteam spread out and less susceptible to area-of-effect weapons, Owen formed a triangle, with Martin at the apex, and Hitoshi and himself at the rear corners. He crouched behind the front of a car, aware of his hypocrisy for scoffing at the White Fang for treating automobiles as bulletproof, but also hoping that the engine block would be dense enough to stop at least a few rounds.

“Owen! Suppressing fire on these guys!” ordered Hitoshi. “Martin! Get some 40mm rounds out when their heads are down!”

“Copy! Suppressing!” Owen yelled. He brought his M29 to the hood, using half a second to double check the positions of the White Fang (two hiding behind the concrete entrance to the underground subway, one blind-firing his weapon around a large, rectangular communal post box, and the last sprinting to a nearby car – possibly to try to drag his fallen ally out of the open). He opened fire at the two at the subway, his moderate burst sending chips of stone and cement flying.

Easing off the trigger, he shifted right, letting another volley fly, this time at the post box. Over three dozen rounds hammered at the red cast iron, creating sparks as some of them deflected off the metal cylinder. He shifted even further right, to the sprinter, who’d taken cover behind a truck. His M29 scythed through the vehicle, penetrating the frame, shattering windows and piercing tires.

Just as he was about to let go of the trigger, his machine gun stopped firing on its own. A quick glance at the receiver showed he’d used up his two hundred round belt. Internally, he kicked himself for not keeping track of his ammo. Had he still had his HUD, he would have been notified that he was running out, but it was never a good idea to rely purely on it.

“Loading!” he called out to Hitoshi, who’d now risen to a crouching position to similarly orient himself behind the engine block of his jeep.

“Copy!” His Sergeant yelled back. “Martin! M84! Now!”

The M84 UGL (Underrbarrel Grenade Launcher) was, as its name stated, a grenade launcher that could be attached to an infantryman’s rifle. It was utilised by both Atlas and Vale, who respectively equipped them on the M90 Rifle and M2 Carbine. Capable of firing a variety of 40mm grenades, including high explosive, fragmentation, smoke, and ‘floating flares’, it was issued to one soldier per fireteam. If Owen was responsible for throwing the most lead downrange, Martin was the one who they relied upon to ‘thump’ the harder and more dug in targets.

“Roger!” Martin shouted. “Frag out!”

With that, his squadmate pulled the trigger, unleashing a shell that flew too fast for any one of them to see its arc. Almost instantaneously, it crossed roughly twenty metres of no-man’s land and detonated in the subway entrance.

The M671 Fragmentation Round used a mix of concussive force and shrapnel against its foes. If one was within five metres of its impact point, they were going to have a bad time, aura or no aura. For anyone up to two hundred metres away, there was still a chance of being hit by the stray pieces of white-hot metal, although it became exponentially less likely the further away they were. Unfortunately for the two White Fang, they were well within the ‘lethal radius’. There was a resounding _crack_ , in tandem with a puff of smoke. Then nothing.

During this, Owen was frantically trying to reload his machine gun. He pulled the cocking handle and locked the bolt to the rear. Placing the gun on ‘safe’ mode, he raised the feed cover assembly, thankful that his combat gloves prevented him from feeling any of the residual heat that would have been generated with his continuous firing and removed what little of the spent belt that remained.

As he detached the box magazine and started reaching into one of his pouches for another two hundred round belt, he glimpsed one of the surviving White Fang coming out of cover with something in her hand. It didn’t take long for him to identify it as a stick grenade: an old piece of gear that had, similarly to the Ocelot SMG, come out of the Great War in excessive surplus. Granted, it had been so long since the grenade had rolled off the assembly line that Owen wouldn’t be surprised if its explosives had long since been rendered inert. He wasn’t in the mood to take that chance, though.

Aware of the priority threat in front of him, Hitoshi had already started firing at the thrower. Martin, however, hadn’t noticed, too preoccupied with loading another 40mm round into his UGL. The M90 was a good rifle, but it wouldn’t break through her aura in time. So, Owen abandoned his reload and drew his M15 Sidearm. He could get one, maybe two shots off before the grenade was in the air. It still probably wouldn’t be enough, but he had to try.

His first round hit the thrower in the centre mass, creating a flash of blue-white as lead crashed into her aura. The second round (and Owen swore he would never ever be able to recreate such a feat) hit the grenade. It didn’t explode, as movies or video games would suggest. But it did knock it out of the thrower’s hand. She glanced back, frantically searching for where it had landed, but wasn’t able to take more than a couple of steps before Owen’s and Hitoshi’s combined fire finally broke her aura, which resulted in at least half a dozen rounds lodging themselves in her back.

The _thump_ of Martin’s M84 was proceeded by another explosion behind and slightly to the left of the post box. The White Fang member who’d been using it as cover was thrown off his feet by the blast, his aura shattering just before he knocked his head on the pavement. They didn’t give him the time to regain his bearings, filling him full of rounds until his body stopped convulsing.

Owen holstered his M15, then returned to his M29. Mindful of the firefight that was still occurring at his right and rear, he hastily placed his ammo belt into the empty box magazine, making sure the two hundred rounds were packed in layers. The _pings_ and _hisses_ of bullets flying and impacting around him spurred him to forgo the safety check for brass, ammo and links. He slammed the feed assembly closed, flicked the safety off, then pushed the cocking handle forward.

He glanced to where Martin and Hitoshi had been. The former had already moved to support the others, while the latter had stayed put, covering his reload. He nodded to the Sergeant, and they made for the rest of the fireteam.

A grunt escaped his lips as he dove on his stomach and his chest plate pressed into his front. All of these small movements, repositioning, crouching, twisting, running, was playing hell on his joints. Once more bracing the bipod on the ground, he sighted his targets (it appeared the remaining White Fang members had coalesced into a single group of six, loosely spread out in a sixty-degree angle from his position. He zeroed in on a pair popping in and out of a nearby convenience storefront. He hosed the area with two bursts of about twenty rounds each, making them duck further inside. As with with subway entrance, his suppressing fire was followed by a grenade from Martin’s M84.

He was about to shift fire to the remaining four, who were in the process of darting from cover to cover, away from the fireteam. Considering the substantial losses the fireteam had inflicted on them, it was a wonder they hadn’t fallen apart earlier. Owen let off a burst, trying to give them that final straw to break their backs. His squadmates joined in, their rifles flinging out shot after shot. He saw a few rounds make contact with their auras, but not enough to break them.

The roar of engines – which to be fair had always been in the background to remind them of the continued presence of hundreds of White Fang transports – filled the air. With a feeling of dread, Owen fought the urge to jerk his head up, lest he catch an untimely bullet to his skull. Instead, he rolled on his back and looked to the skies above.

The outlines of a pair of VTOLs greeted his wide eyes, the symbol of three strikes going through a wolf’s head painted clearly for all to see. Noses tilted down, they were barrelling towards his fireteam. As they got closer, he saw the distinctive jut of machine guns protruding from their chins. And as much as he knew the dangers of losing his cool on the battlefield, he couldn’t stop the burning sensation of terror from forming in his gut. In the heat of battle, if a soldier was to succumb to their emotions, it was almost always preferable to hate, rather than fear. Hate could be focused. Fear was a lot harder to control.

And so, in a voice that was most definitely regularly pitched, he yelled, “Tiltjets! Tiltjets inbound!”

His fireteam snapped to where his finger was pointed. Their helmets hid their expressions, but Owen could almost feel the blood rushing from their faces as they too bore witness to hell about to unleash itself on their position.

“Cover! Get to cover now!”

 _Pops_ rang out from the skies as the VTOLs opened fire. Owen grunted as he rolled back onto his stomach, pushed with his legs and, once more, dove face first into the ground. In the short time he was airborne, he grimaced as a round impacted his side. His aura held, if only barely, but he made sure to pat down where he was hit, after regaining his bearings. No hole. No wound. No pain. Still good.

He hefted his M29 so that its stock was firmly against his shoulder. Looking up from the lines of cratered and cracked asphalt that marked their gun runs, he sighted the two ships and let off a burst. He knew it wouldn’t do much, but it was better than just cowering where he was.

“Team! Status!” Hitoshi called out.

They were fine, if more than a little rattled, and said as much. Already, he could see the VTOLs turning around to make another pass.

“Heads up! Grimm contact on our nine!”

“Fuck me. Just give us a break!” said Martin.

Owen sympathised with his squadmate. It was like their attention spans were on a pendulum. Learn that the Grimm are coming. Get distracted by the White Fang. Get surprised by a Grimm crashing from the sky. Be on the receiving end of a White Fang Ambush. Then, after being on the receiving end of an airstrike with no real way of retaliating, he turned his head to find themselves in the path of a pack of charging Boarbatusks.

He shifted his M29 left. He might not be able to down the VTOLs, but his LMG would break the Grimm with enough sustained fire. Focusing on the pack, counting six, he squeezed the trigger. A long burst from his weapon sped towards the Grimm, and impacted their spinning forms. He narrowed his eyes, attempting to walk his rounds to focus on the leftmost one. His bullets struck the beast, some ricocheting off, and others lodging themselves in its back, rear, and skull. As if it had hit a speedbump, the Boarbatusk was launched in the air at a skewed angle, flying for half a dozen metres before crashing into a lamppost. Keeping pressure on the trigger, he fought the recoil to wrench his M29 right, continuing to spit out lead.

The _snap_ of rounds zipping over his head caused Owen to duck reflexively, throwing off his aim from the Grimm. The retreating White Fang had rallied at the arrival of air support, and were charging back into the Atlesians, guns blazing and voices screaming. He also took note of the rising sound of engines, signalling that the VTOLs would attempt another gun run very soon.

They were outnumbered and surrounded, facing monsters from one side and fanatics on the other. They were putting up a fight – of that there was no doubt – but they were also trying to punch above their weight. Possessing only small arms (with the exception of Martin’s M84, which was classified as a ‘light weapon’), they were capable of little more than denting the VTOLs. One of them might get lucky and get a bullet through the cockpit window, but at their current velocity, it was a very unlikely prospect. And even if they could focus on the two ad hoc gunships, they had about five seconds before the Boarbatusks rolled right over them. Adding the four gunmen that were continuing to pepper them with inaccurate, yet sufficiently deadly, fire, his mind was starting to shut down from decision paralysis.

The sound of shattering glass, followed by a wet _thwap_ , caught his attention, and he saw Trevor reeling away while clutching his left hand with his right. Owen’s blood froze as he caught a glimpse of quickly fading red.

“I’m hit!” called out Grant. Even as the yell left his mouth, Owen saw him drop to a crawl and try to reach around his cover – a solid concrete bench – for his M90, which he’d dropped after having his aura shattered and hand shot.

“No! Don’t go for it!” Hitoshi yelled, trying to stop Grant from re-exposing his vulnerable form to fire. But Grant went for it anyways. Under the hail of fire that followed, he snatched his rifle with his uninjured hand and snapped back behind the concrete.

During this, Owen had shifted his fire away from the Grimm, the overpowering instinct to suppress the White Fang aiming for Grant momentarily erasing any thoughts of uncertainty, self-preservation, or target priority. Only when he heard the rumbling of bone and muscle on asphalt did he look back.

They were almost here. Rifle fire from Annette and Grant had cut their numbers down to a mere three. But, once they got into melee, three would be all that was needed.

He started turning his M29 back on the monsters. It was most likely a futile effort, as by the time he had his weapon up, he was just as likely to hit his own fireteam as the Grimm. Puffs of debris started flying as the VTOLs started their second gun run, raking lines of death into the roads that drew closer to them by the moment.

_Duck! Now!_

For a fraction of a second, Owen hesitated. The voice was unfamiliar. It belonged to a woman, but he’d never heard her before. Who was she? Why did she want him duck when doing so would just make him easier pickings for the Grimm and gunships? And the clarity of her words…she hadn’t spoken through a radio. He could hear her as if she was right next him. But even then, his helmet would have surely muffled what she’d said.

There just were some things that couldn’t be learned consciously. As much as their Kingdom tried to drill every bit skill and conviction into their heads from enlistment, there was one asset in every soldier, every pilot, shipman and marine, that no amount of experimentation could replicate.

Their gut.

And in that fraction of a second, Owen’s gut was telling him to listen to the lady, whomever she was. He didn’t know why, but he felt the urge to follow her command, strong in delivery and with no ambiguity. And so – with the sardonic thought that if he told anyone about this, he’d be derided as the chump who’d kissed the ground for some girl he didn’t even know – he slammed himself into the asphalt.

Not a second later, he heard the windup of some mechanism powering up, which was followed by a _crack_ , and a small shockwave wracked his body as something flew over his back, well over supersonic speeds, presumably with a mass much greater than any bullet he’d ever fired. He heard a _crunch_ , then the steady rise of an engine’s whining pitch. He twisted his neck right, trying to see what had happened, only to have his helmet’s cameras covered by a blooming cloud of white smoke. It was exhaust from a missile, which he barely had time to acquire as the residue cleared, just in time to see it detonate on one of the VTOLs. There was the briefest flash of yellow, which was quickly smothered in black smoke that engulfed the entire front of the craft. It started losing altitude, swinging left and right like a curious snake, swaying its head back and forth. Then, Owen saw the second VTOL, the one that had been struck first, spinning in its own descent. One of its drive shafts connecting the jet engines to the main fuselage had been obliterated, leaving black smoke to pour out, as if it was blood from an amputated limb.

The report of a rifle caught his attention, as a round came flying over him, and hit one of the Boarbatusks that were attempting to maul his fireteam. The bullet made a neat entry hole through its hide. Unfortunately for the beast, the exit was not as clean. What Owen could only describe as an explosion of blood, guts and bone erupted out of its side. The Boarbatusk’s body effectively deflated, as a good chunk of its organs and fluids were ripped from its insides. Although Owen couldn’t see it in the midst of all the gore, the bullet kept travelling and clipped a second Boarbatusk in the head. The second creature’s skull was mulched by the kinetic force, its brain matter sliding out from its cracked skull. Neither of them had the time to react to the shot. They were both dead before they dropped to the ground, wisps of black smoke already starting to rise from their deceased forms.

A bolt of vibrant blue, crackling with barely contained energy, streaked in to hit the final Boarbatusk. On impact, it vaporised tissue and marrow alike, transforming organic matter into steam and leaving behind a charred, lifeless corpse that too began to turn into mist.

With his body still flat on the ground, Owen couldn’t see the White Fang, but the silence that followed a second volley from his fireteam’s saviours told him they had likely met a similarly grisly end. He considered getting up, but he was still in the middle of processing the amount of firepower he’d just dodged (no…been _instructed_ to dodge) and he’d yet to stop his teeth from chattering.

Regrettably for him, he couldn’t just stay as he was, as he heard Hitoshi call out, “Atlas Army! Blue! Blue!”

“Blue! Confirmed!” said another voice. Owen recognised it. It had been the same voice that had told him to duck. Daring to raise himself to a low crouch, he glanced around at his fireteam, most of whom were similarly on a knee or flat on their stomachs. It appeared he hadn’t been the only one to hear the voice in his head, which comforted him greatly.

“Advance and be identified,” said Hitoshi. He had risen to a standing position, the muzzle of his M90 pointed downwards, but ready to be levelled at the other speaker.

Owen turned to face the slow footsteps that followed in compliance with his Sergeant’s order and saw a woman. She was clad in the white armour that all Atlas infantry was made to become familiar with. Hers, however, looked a little lighter, sacrificing overall protection to allow for greater manoeuvrability. In her arms, she was holding a bullpup that would have looked like just any other weapon in his Kingdom’s vast arsenal, if not for the cyan glow that was emanating from various points on its barrel and magazine. A pair of straps looped diagonally from shoulder to waist, originating. Behind her were three more soldiers (two men and another woman) with their own curious weapons and gear, from a two-handed cannon to an oversized gauntlet.

“First Sergeant Canaris,” she said. “Atlas Huntsman Corps.”


	5. Invasion V

**First Sergeant Hannah Canaris**

**Team 4, 3 rd Platoon, B Company  
** **Atlas Huntsman Corps**

**1935 Hours (31 minutes prior to start of Chapter 4)**

The rumble of engines powering up was accompanied by a trio of airships lfiting off to rejoin the armada of White Fang craft buzzing over the night sky. They’d come from a park, one of many found in the Residential District that sought to break up the urban sprawl of grey high rises.

Hannah waited until the sound of their jets faded into the white noise of the other hundreds of ships, then unclenched her fist (which she’d raised upon first hearing their approach) into pointing all five fingers forward. Behind her, three pairs of footsteps sounded off, as they resumed their cautious advance.

When Atlas had been preparing to send its ‘second wave’ to Vale, the JCS (Joint Chiefs of Staff) had approved for the AHC (Atlas Huntsman Corps) to be attached to the 3rd Aerial Fleet. 3rd Platoon of B Company had been nominated for deployment, resulting in four teams, including Hannah’s Team 4, being dispatched with barely four hours of notice.

For many Huntsmen, their official training ended after their fourth year in their Academy. Not for the Atlesians. Every member of the AHC, from the enlisted members to its overall commanding officer, was expected to serve in the military for a select amount of time before even receiving the opportunity to go back through an arduous selection process. Hannah herself had enlisted with the Atlas Marines after graduating from Atlas Academy, serving in the 20th Marine Infantry Regiment for five years before passing through screening to join the 1st Marine Special Operations Regiment. She’d remained there for another four years, becoming a Squad Leader and attaining the rank of Gunnery Sergeant, before she’d received her invitation from AASOC (Atlas Army Special Operations Command).

The rest of her team were similarly seasoned. Master Sergeant Arthur Holmes had been a marksman in the Atlas Army, graduating from sniper school and being inducted into the RRC (Regimental Reconnaissance Company) of the elite light infantry 25th Airborne Pioneer Regiment. Sergeant First Class Heather Straplemei had served in ANSOCC (Atlas Navy Special Operations Craft Crewmen), crewing fast, agile ships that joined and worked to support special forces in both amphibious and air assault operations. Sergeant First Class Sean Allister had been a PJ (Para Jumper), a member of the Atlas Air Force Pararescue, which was responsible for the on-site treatment and recovery of downed pilots, aviators and shipmen, often in hostile or remote zones and under heavy fire.

They all bore the scars of combat, and even racked up a fair amount of prestige with their service records. As Huntsmen-in-training, they’d been all but groomed for the armed forces. And while there was no shame in enlisting in and staying with a regular unit, everyone who graduated from Atlas Academy had done so in peak condition. They were faster, stronger, tougher, and sharper than most (if not all) others their age. Classes and exercises had taught them to reach high for what they wanted, and if what they wanted was to earn the title of Huntsman through the AHC, it only made sense to show their potential recruiters just how far they could push themselves.

Their platoon had arrived in Vale aboard the _ASA Omalicus_ , bunking with Army troops from 3rd Battalion of the 19th Infantry Regiment. Only a week after their arrival had AASOC been able to dispatch one of the AHC’s Ranger-class corvettes, the _ASA Longbow_ , which would serve as their headquarters for the duration of their deployment. They had been keeping themselves blended in with the civilians, looking for all intents and purposes like a group of post-graduates using the night to vent their overclocked brains on the town. They’d been at a café booth in a shopping centre, chatting away with meaningless conversation while simultaneously shuffling through intelligence reports on their scrolls when they’d received a transmission from the _Longbow_ of an incoming invasion force headed for Vale. Before they could get any further details or orders, their IMs (Internal Monitors, effectively radios and CCT Relays that fit inside their ears) had let out an agonising squeal.

After recovering their hearing, and bearing witness to the chess piece speech, they’d made their way out of the establishment, slipping through panicking crowds to get to the street. She’d tried re-establishing contact with the _Longbow_ via radio, but their frequency (as well as presumably every other frequency) was clogged with unfamiliar voices – mostly commanders trying to restore order amongst their subordinates and individual units calling for assistance as they were beset upon by the White Fang and Grimm, and even reports of friendly fire from the 3rd Aerial Fleet’s various ships. Thus, without a link to command, they were left to sort through this mess on their own.

Unfortunately, Hannah and her team were severely underequipped. They had their IMs and were carrying nothing more than knives and M15 Sidearms in concealed holsters and sheathes, they were still in their civilian getups, possessing no armour or other gear to speak of. And with the CCT Network down, there was no way for them to call their RSPs (Rocket Storage Pods) in from the _Longbow_ and grab what they needed.

They’d gone over their options and come to the same general conclusion.

While Vale might have been ready to receive Atlas’ 7th Aerial Fleet and its ground complements, it had been much less prepared for the 3rd Aerial Fleet, roughly fifteen thousand troops, and around five hundred vehicles that had come after the Breach. There just hadn’t been enough places to house the sudden influx of personnel and equipment, meaning the majority of their troops had been forced to stay on their ships and wait for the Valeans to clear out a space big enough for them to stay during the Vytal Festival. As of now, there were only two places in the city that were occupied by the Atlesians: Fort Helix and the Mavis Complex.

Fort Helix was a Vale Army Base in its final stages of construction located just within the outer walls. Designed to house over ten thousand military and auxiliary personnel, the Atlas Army’s 4th HBCT (Heavy Brigade Combat Team) was permitted to set up in its completed areas, so that their Navy’s ships wouldn’t have to continue spending precious fuel on keeping their numerous tanks, APCs (Armoured Personnel Carriers), SPGs (Self-Propelled Guns), and other heavy vehicles airborne.

The Mavis Complex was a much more ‘ad hoc’ solution, being little more than a block of warehouses that had been slated for demolition before the Breach. With little encouragement needed, the Vale Council had authorised their conversion to being a temporary barracks for Atlas’ 15th IBCT. The complex was in the Industrial District, situated near the Larynx River, which separated the Residential District from the Industrial and Agricultural Districts.

With confusion reigning across the city, they needed a strongpoint. Fort Helix was too far away, being at least twenty kilometres from the edge of the Residential District. This left them the Mavis Complex, the most likely place where they could regroup their reeling forces, establish a functional communications system, and amass for a proper defence and counterattack.

They’d set out for the complex, pistols out and cautiously moving street by street towards the river. The crowds were thinning on the roads, as people began to seek refuge in various indoor areas. Automated defence turrets and batteries had sprung out across the city as the alert had gone off, but Hannah saw that they were unusually stationary, refusing to rotate on their own and scan for hostile entities.

The sound of descending airships had caused her to halt their advance. They saw three VTOLs coming in to drop off a group of White Fang. They’d touched down about fifty metres from their position. She needed to get a closer look.

Signalling her team to move, they crossed an intersection, coming up on a low brick wall. She stopped the team once more. Her vision was obscured by a hedgerow that was easily tall enough to clear her head, even if she’d climbed on top of the wall. She looked back at her team, and said, “Three. Eyes on.”

“Check,” acknowledged Heather. Her teammate closed her eyes, remaining still for a couple of seconds, before opening them again to reveal a pair of irises that glowed a bright emerald, revealing her semblance: Magnetic Vision – the ability to see through physical obstacles and identify sources of metal, from the mundane like car keys to the lethal like hidden weapons. Although invaluable for scouting out their opposition, it only had a detection range of around thirty metres, meaning they still had to rely on other methods such as thermal imaging, infrared, or even just their plain old eyes at longer distances. Additionally, using her semblance had the undesirable effect of singling out Heather for anyone on the lookout for the curious. As such, she often had to use her vision behind an obstacle, as she was doing now with the hedges.

They waited as Heather slowly turned her head left and right, making sure to capture every detail she could before making her report. Once satisfied, she closed her eyes once more, letting them return to their normal green.

“Twenty plus foot mobiles,” she said. “Small arms and bladed weapons. They’re setting up some tubes at an angle. Potentially mortars or portable SAMs (Surface to Air Missiles).”

“Check,” said Hannah. “Positions?”

Heather pointed in four directions, holding her finger still for two seconds for each one before moving onto the next.

“Alright. We’re gonna take these guys,” said Hannah. If Heather’s assessment was accurate (and it rarely wasn’t), they’d just come across what was likely one of many positions the White Fang were attempting to set up to gain a groundside foothold in the city. What or who exactly they were going to target was unknown, but she wasn’t about to give them the chance to show them. She laid out her plan.

“We’ll circle left for a better angle. How are comms looking, Two?”

“Working on it,” replied Arthur. “The _Longbow_ ’s still transmitting to us, but I’m having trouble talking back to them with all the junk in the air right now.”

“Keep at it. If you get a two-way, let me know.”

“Check.”

“Okay. Let’s move.”

* * *

They came to the park’s entrance, a big metal gate that had been left flung open. Peeking around the wall first to see if anyone was looking, Hannah gave an ‘ok’ sign to her team, and they slipped in. The hostiles weren’t far off. She could hear their voices as the two of them crept off the footpath and concealed themselves in the shrubbery. Normally, moving amongst the leaves and twigs was a sure-fire way to get them spotted with the crackle and rustle of foliage. But with the level of noise in the area, from the roaring aircraft to the sounds of distance growls and gunfire and the hurried shouting of their enemies and allies, she felt comfortable taking the chance in exchange for a lower risk of being visually detected.

Reaching the edge of a large grouping of trees, they came across a wide, open area of flat grassland. It had most likely been used for a soccer match before the invasion, judging from the painted white lines, goalposts, and various bags, drinks, jackets and other assortments that littered the ground. In the middle of the field, she saw (as Heather had described) twenty-two White Fang. They were divided into four groups, each clustered around a mortar and boxes of shells. She saw communications equipment too, essential for them to receive targeting data from forward observers and frontline troops.

Right now, they were busy, focused on setting up the mortars and stacking sandbags that would give them cover in the event of an enemy assault. Unfortunately, in their haste to fortify themselves, they’d failed to task anyone with keeping a lookout for hostiles, robbing them of the critical advantage of their innate night vision.

“Lots of targets,” murmured Arthur.

“We’ll split up. Each one of us takes a mortar team. Left to right. One to Four,” said Hannah. “Slow advance. Engage on my mark, or if spotted first.”

“Check,” replied her team.

They dropped down to their stomachs and started inching their way through the short grass, using the trash and abandoned items to screen their movements as much as possible. The M15 had an effective range of thirty metres. While they were well within that distance, they were still facing off against submachine guns and assault rifles. When the shooting started, Hannah wanted as little ground to cover as possible to negate the advantage of the White Fang’s larger calibre weapons.

Crawling up to a large duffel bag, she rolled on her side, placing her body at a forty-five degree angle from the mortar teams. Fully extending her right arm with the pistol, supported by her left hand gripping her right, she took aim through the iron sights, lining up a White Fang who was panting over a stack of sandbags and wiping sweat off his brow.

Communicating by voice was too risky at this distance, especially when she didn’t have a throat mike to relay her command to the others’ IMs. Fortunately for Hannah, she had another way of talking to her teammates.

As Hannah zeroed in on her target, the muscles in her face tensed as her body began to feel slightly faint. Although her vision was functioning normally, she felt the sense that she somehow had a third eye, one that could look around her and see through the physical form. Through clothes, flesh, blood, and bone, there was just light; a spark of life that represented the soul, something immaterial and, to many, inconceivable. Each one was unique, be it in their intensity, a colour, or behaviour. Their deviations symbolised the differences, both subtle and overt, that separated each person from the one next to them. But she could never traverse past a certain distance. If they were ever far enough away, they would vanish from her sight, melting into the eternal darkness that lay beyond.

Subconsciously, she searched for three familiar signatures, and found her team: Arthur, Heather, and Sean. She felt their auras. They were accustomed to her disembodied presence and let her into their minds with a seamless welcome.

Telepathy.

_“This is One. I’m in position.”_

_“Two. Ready.”_

_“Three. In position.”_

_“Four. Got a clear shot.”_

This was it. Hannah breathed in…then out.

_“Open fire.”_

Her first round struck the White Fang in the face. White and blue flared out as his aura kicked in and the bullet fragmented. The insurgent jerked back in alarm, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid her second shot, which hit him in the shoulder. Again, his aura took the brunt of it, and he started to duck behind the incomplete sandbag wall, which didn’t even reach his knees in height. A third round clipped his waist as he dove downwards.

Normally sandbags served as excellent cover against small arms, requiring one to use grenades, anti-material rifles, and other ‘heavy’ options to either penetrate them or break them down. Unfortunately for Hannah’s target, he’d accidentally shoved a pair of the bags off the wall in his haste to hit the deck. As such, she could still see part of his body sticking out over the insufficiently high barrier. Three more rounds flew before she saw the shards of light that signified the depletion of his aura. Her next shot hit proper flesh, if the ensuing scream was anything to go by.

Seven rounds fired. Five left in the magazine. One magazine spare. Total of seventeen rounds to go.

There were shouts of alarm as those tending to the mortars saw bullets flying and comrades dropping. Some joined the latter, crawling their way to the unfinished sandbag walls, while others remained standing and started spraying the surrounding area with automatic fire.

Puffs of dirt appeared around Hannah. However, she didn’t flinch. It wouldn’t take long for the White Fang to spot her. But they were panicking, maybe even hoping their reactive fire would deter or flush out whomever was attacking them. She knew she couldn’t stay where she was forever, particularly with her limited ammo. But as long as she wasn’t acquired by the White Fang, she could still keep shooting.

Five rounds flew from her pistol, aimed at a gunman who must have thought he was a movie star, judging by how he was firing an assault rifle from the hip. All five bullets hit his aura, and she went to load her second (and last) magazine.

Their fire was getting more accurate now. They’d seen her team’s muzzle flashes, and now they knew where exactly to shoot. The rounds hissed and snapped over her form and she rolled into a crouch, letting off four consecutive shots at the same gunman. After the second round, he doubled over as a pair of bullets lodged themselves in his gut.

Two wounded. Five standing. Eight rounds left.

She rose into a standing position and sprinted forward ten metres before dropping to her side. In less than a second, she spotted her next target: a woman with a submachine gun, hunched over and trying to hide as much of her form behind the sandbags as she could. Two squeezes of the trigger caused her to forgo her crouch and just lay flat, sufficiently cowed by Hannah’s fire. She shifted her aim right and let her final six rounds fly at another White Fang who’d gone to the woman’s side and tried to haul her up back into the fight. Her aim was true, and after five hits, his aura shattered, leaving the last bullet to enter just below his armpit and into his torso.

Three wounded. Four standing. Rounds depleted.

She got up again and resumed her sprint. Her sixth sense screamed, and she twisted left to try to avoid a particularly accurate hail of fire. She dodged most of it, but still felt two rounds impact her leg. Undeterred, she kept running. She saw the White Fang bracing themselves, some dropping their guns and starting to draw swords, expecting her to leap over the sandbags and get stuck in melee.

Instead, she feigned a yelp, and tumbled forwards in a calculated roll that meant, when she hit the sandbags, she was on her back.

There was a pause, as she imagined the White Fang wondering if she’d really just tripped over her own feet. Then a gun barrel poked over the top. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed it with both hands and, before the wielder could fire, yanked at it with all her might, using her whole body to roll herself into a crouch at the same time.

Her plan had been to steal one of their guns. But this one appeared a bit too attached to his weapon. In twisting herself, Hannah unintentionally found herself throwing over eighty kilograms of bewildered insurgent over her back. She quickly adjusted her footing and posture to compensate for the extra weight and followed through with her manoeuvre. There was a _thump_ and a sharp wheeze as the White Fang found his whole world take an unprecedented spin before his head, upper back and tailbone hit dirt.

With his grip loosened by the sudden stop, Hannah wrenched the gun out of his hands and spun to face the remaining four uninjured hostiles. Three of them had unsheathed their swords, while one had pulled out a mace. At once, they charged at her. She levelled the rifle at them, not bothering with trigger discipline, as they were closing in fast, and went full auto. The recoil was manageable, if still undesirable, and she was able to let off eight rounds, which easily punched through one’s aura to riddle their chest.

Then the remaining three were upon her.

A clumsy strike reliant on brute force came down. She deflected the blade with the rifle and kicked out the swordsman’s legs to send him toppling. The one with the mace came in next, making a wide horizontal swing. Hannah dropped the gun and dashed forwards, coming within arm’s reach before the mace could reach her. She drew her knife from the sheath at her ankle and slashed it across the White Fang’s stomach. Knowing it wasn’t enough to cut through the aura, she caught the arm with the mace, then drove the knife down into the offending limb. For half a second, both her and the White Fang bore witness to the latter’s aura resisting, then succumbing to the short blade, which sank through the sleeve and deep into tissue.

Ignoring the strangled cry that followed, Hannah ripped her knife out, the serrated edge continuing to rip through muscle and skin until it was free for her to brandish once more. The final combatant thrust her sword, intending on impaling Hannah in the back, but she spun right, letting her run her own comrade through the stomach. As the White Fang let go of the sword in horror, Hannah dropped to the ground and retrieved the rifle. On her side, she let off a pair of bursts, gunning down both her and the swordsman she’d tripped up earlier.

Hearing the click of an empty magazine, she shucked the weapon and rose to her feet, only to be bowled over by the White Fang she’d ‘appropriated’ the rifle from. He let out a bellow and started raining fists down on her face, which she did her best to block with her forearms. She turned her head left after receiving a strike to her chin and found her knife (which she’d dropped to pick up the rifle) less than twenty centimetres away. Grabbing it, she dug it into her assailant’s side. He let out a surprised grunt and started to roll away from her. She locked him in with a pin with her left leg and stabbed him again, this time in the neck. Shattering his aura, her knife slipped right through the soft tissue, letting red pour out of the open wound. She saw his eyes widen in surprise as he started gargling and choking on his own blood.

The sound of nearby gunfire and shouts drew her attention to her teammates, and she pulled the knife out, leaving him to spasm his final minutes away on his own. Jumping over the sandbags, she snatched a discarded submachine gun and sighted down the mortar next to hers, where Arthur was facing off against his last mortar crewman. Three paces apart, they were circling each other, one of them eyeing the other with no small amount of trepidation. Hannah knew what Arthur was going for. Crouching and levelling the submachine gun at the White Fang, she squeezed off a quick burst.

The rounds plinked against his aura. She knew it wasn’t enough to penetrate, but it got him distracted enough for Arthur to lunge forward and tackle him to the ground, maneuvring himself behind his opponent to place him in a headlock. Even before he could start applying any real pressure, the insurgent went still, eyes bulging out of their sockets and darting about wildly.

A key element of marksmanship was timing one’s pulse with their shots. When a target could be hundreds, or in extreme cases thousands, of metres from one’s muzzle, even the slightest adjustment could turn a money shot into a graze or absolute miss. The movement of blood through the hands bumps the weapon in said hands, throwing off one’s aim at least forty times a minute. Thus, snipers were trained to fire between their heartbeats, eliminating one of the many variables that would see them fail their shot.

Arthur had found a way around such a restriction. His semblance allowed him to have complete control over his heart rate. In doing so, he rarely had to worry about his own body throwing off his aim, making him an invaluable marksman for first the RRC, and now the AHC. Additionally, he’d discovered that, when making skin-to-skin contact with other people, he could control their heartbeats too. Such a semblance made him an ideal candidate for a certain brand of covert operations, and he was sometimes detached from her team by JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) to conduct solo missions. He never told them the details of what he did outside their team deployments, and they never asked.

Now, as he choked the man in front of him, Hannah could see him silently commanding his heart to stop beating…indefinitely.

Turning away from her teammate, she glanced back to the trio of gunmen she’d initially wounded with her pistol. One was reaching for a revolver on his belt, even as blood trickled out of his mouth. She aimed the gun and fired, making his head snap back as half a dozen rounds went through his neck and skull. She glanced at the other two. One was breathing erratically and pressing down on his abdomen, trying to stem the blood from a pair of bullet wounds. Another was lying face first on the ground, whimpering as his hands clutched at his buttocks. Hannah figured this was the first guy she’d shot, but hadn’t been quite sure where she’d hit him until now.

Electing to leave them be for now, she spun back around to Arthur’s side to see him glance at her. She gave him a thumbs up, then pointed in the direction of Heather’s and Sean’s mortars. He nodded and they both started running.

* * *

As they regrouped after eliminating the final mortar crew, Hannah called for a huddle-up.

“Anyone hit?”

“Negative.”

“I’m good.”

“Negative, One.”

“Alright. We’ll be on the move again soon. Two. Keep trying to raise the _Longbow_. Four. With me. We’re gonna grab some weapons and ammo. Be on the lookout for grenades. Three. Round up the wounded. Tell whoever can still walk that they’ve got five minutes to get their buddies out before we blow everything here to hell.”

“Check,” said her teammates, and they all went about their assigned tasks.

Taking prisoners during combat was never a simple matter. Had she been part of a regular unit in a more conventional engagement, she could have disarmed the remaining White Fang and sent them to the rear where they would be Military Police and other support units that would apprehend them. But this wasn’t a conventional engagement. No one knew where the battle lines were, and there was no way to request additional troops to secure the park. Mathematics and cold hard logic dictated that she should shoot them. If she let them go, they would most likely run off and continue sowing chaos in this godforsaken invasion. Another option would be for her team to simply choose to hunker down here and guard the prisoners themselves. Yet, that would paralyse and deny them the chance to regroup with other Atlesian and Valean forces who, as of now, were in desperate need of reconsolidating their people to put up an actual defence of the city. In the end, she chose to release them. Most of them were already wounded and wouldn’t be of much use in a fight. As for exposing their presence to the other White Fang, she counted on having instilled enough fear in them with their brazen assault to keep them silent for at least a little while.

If any of her team disagreed with her decision, they didn’t show it. The rules of engagement were clear: do _not_ kill unarmed prisoners. Whether or not they thought such a restriction was applicable in their current situation, it wasn’t their call to make. She was team leader, and she would hear their counsel if they had any to offer. But in the end, it was her decision to make, and by extension her responsibility to bear the consequences of whatever said decision would entail.

As Hannah was rooting through the boxes, plucking magazines and explosives as she saw fit, she heard Arthur call to her via the telepathic connection, _“One! I’ve got a line with the_ Longbow _. They’re switching to Sierra 091.”_

As useful as her semblance could be, Hannah had come to understand that most people didn’t appreciate having a voice that wasn’t theirs inside their head, no matter how useful it could be. Her team was a lot more accepting of it, but wanting to respect their personal space, she tried to limit how much she actually used it. However, in this situation, where the wounded White Fang could be hanging onto every word they said, she appreciated his understanding that speaking through their minds was infinitely more secure than shouting across the field.

_“Check,”_ she replied. _“Switching to Sierra 091.”_

* * *

“ _Longbow_. This is Bravo 3-4-Actual (B Company, 3rd Platoon, Team 4 Leader). Do you read? Over,” said Hannah.

“Bravo 3-4-Actual. This is _Longbow_. We hear you loud and clear. What’s your status? Over,” came back the voice of Major Alexander Aurantius, commander of the AHC’s B Company, 3rd Platoon.

“All Hotels (Huntsmen) accounted for. Made contact with and eliminated a White Fang mortar team. Running without gear. Over.”

“Copy, 3-4-Actual. Be advised, we’ve got your RSPs on standby. What’s your location? Over.”

Hannah thought back to when they’d entered the park. There had been an arch above the gate with the park’s name. It would have to do in place of exact coordinates, which wouldn’t be of much use without the CCT Network anyways.

“We’re in Arami Park. Requesting Royal Flush (fully stocked RSPs with their weapons, armour and additional equipment ranging from the routine like extra ammo and rations to the more thrilling like explosive charges and laser target indicators) on our position ASAP. Over.”

“Roger. RSPs are being loaded and we are moving into position for launch. ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival): ninety seconds. Over.”

* * *

In the time that it took for their storage pods to be launched, the team received a brief SITREP (Situation Report). In essence, everything was fucked. White Fang and Grimm were crawling all over the city, with an enormous wave of aerial Grimm inbound from the east. Atlas’ 3rd and 7th Aerial Fleets were in disarray, being subjected to a surprise attack from their own hijacked vessels. Both they and the Valeans were scrambling to get more troops in the streets, but progress was infuriatingly slow without a unified communications system. The outer walls were constantly being hit by endless waves of ground-based Grimm, who were trying to force an entry into the city.

Hannah’s Team 4 was instructed to follow through with their original plan and continue making their way towards the Mavis Complex, with the adjustment that they link up with forces attempting to seize and fortify Lomarian Bridge, which ran over Larynx River to connect the Residential District with the Industrial and Agricultural Districts. If they ran across friendly units on their way, they were to commandeer them to join the push (assuming they hadn’t been able to establish contact with their own superiors). Meanwhile, First Sergeant Ulrick Mo’s Team 1 would attempt to secure Melodeon Bridge in the north that joined the Residential and Commercial Districts, while First Sergeant Chun Sun-man’s Team 2 and First Sergeant Victoria Lascelles’ Team 3 were preparing to join the Atlas Marines’ 3rd Expeditionary Brigade to reinforce Amity Colosseum, which was currently being swarmed by the Grimm and White Fang, and enable the city to start evacuating the forty-five thousand people currently trapped in the arena.

As the familiar howl of rocket engines entered her ears, Hannah and her team braced for the RSPs flying in to impact soil.

She ordered her team to gear up, and they started running to their individual pods. The sight of the gunmetal grey, diamond-shaped storage units had given a boost to what had, up to now, been an atmosphere of unease and apprehension.

Without their weapon, a Huntsman was dangerous. With it, they were lethal. And now, they were about to continue their foray into a burning city, facing threats from all sides in an urban environment rife with non-combatants. Their side was stunned, caught off guard, scattered, and desperate for help. Their enemies were ruthless, innumerable, and deadly. If they failed here, they could witness the end of an entire Kingdom, the ramifications of which would throw the world into utter chaos, confusion, and despair. It was the unthinkable scenario, the nightmare one could no longer deny, the apocalypse come to life.

And, to them, it was just another day at the office.


	6. Invasion VI

**Second Lieutenant Joseph Dupuis**

**Tank 1, 2 nd Platoon, D Company  
** **2 nd Battalion, 8th Armoured Regiment  
** **4 th Heavy Brigade Combat Team  
** **1 st Armoured Division**

**2023 Hours**

Joseph drummed his fingers impatiently on his M7 Enforcer MBT’s (Main Battle Tank’s) cupola as the uneven plains surrounding the highway finally broke into growing fields and grazing areas. Around him, the deafening _rumbles_ and _whirs_ of engines from dozens of vehicles made it impossible to hear anything that wasn’t relayed directly into his R/IC (Radio/Internal Communications) headset.

With the advent of the invasion, the 4th HBCT, as with every other Valean and Atlesian unit, had scrambled to mobilise. Being situated in the partially constructed Fort Helix Army Base, many of them could only helplessly listen to the panicked radio chatter that had followed the loss of the CCT Network. Incoming reports had been disorganised and contradictory, with no one seeming to know just what was happening and what they needed to do. And by the time they’d started their vehicles, they still had zero idea of where exactly they needed to move out to.

Direction had finally come from the Valeans when Colonel Johannes Lafayette (the 4th HBCT’s CO – Commanding Officer) had received a transmission from Fort Newton, which housed the Vale Army’s 3rd Infantry Division. The city was currently under a two-pronged assault from both the Grimm and the White Fang. In addition to having their CCT sabotaged, Vale had lost control of its automated defences. Grimm were forming in massed waves and crashing into the outer walls, which while holding for now, were dangerously low on manpower in multiple sections without any functioning mechanical turrets. The main city had turned into a bloody melee, with hostiles being dropped in via hundreds of airships that had forced their way in during the chaos. All four of Vale’s aerial fleets were unable to get into the city, as the substantial firepower of their ships were needed to keep the Grimm off the walls. Every major district was under attack, with the Residential District being the hardest hit. The Atlas Army’s 4th Infantry Division was supposedly present and fighting there, but no organised word had come from its 10th, 15th, or 16th IBCTs. There were also reports of ships from the Atlas Navy’s 3rd and 7th Aerial Fleets firing on their own, but the channels had been too clogged to verify the claims. Vale’s Air Force, Army Aviation Branch and Seaborne Navy Aviation Branch were attempting to get as many fighters and evacuation ships over the city as possible to regain air superiority and start airlifting people out of the newly established warzone. Amity Colosseum in particular was designated as a critical objective, as it was currently unsupported by Atlas’ fracturing Navy and left with little more than a battalion of Atlas Marines to defend over forty-five thousand civilians currently trapped in the floating stadium.

In short, they needed troops everywhere, and they needed them _now_.

Colonel Lafayette had elected to split the HBCT into two groups. The first group, which was composed of 1st Battalion of the 4th Armoured, 1st Battalion of the 6th Armoured, and 2nd Battalion of the 19th Field Artillery would head south and east to reinforce the Valeans on the walls. The second group, made up of Joseph’s 2nd Battalion of the 8th Armoured and 3rd Battalion of the 3rd Motorised would head into the city, cutting through the Agricultural and Industrial Districts to reach Lomarian Bridge. They would cross the bridge into the Residential District, while linking up with as many of the 4th Infantry Division as they could, hopefully re-establishing communications between its CO, Major General Adler Kossack, and Colonel Lafayette, and establishing a foothold in the city for other friendly units to capitalise on.

With their HHC (Headquarters & Headquarters Company), two Mechanised Companies (A and B), two Armoured Companies (C and D), and attached FSC (Forward Support Company) from the 58th Brigade Support Battalion, they’d rolled out in force. D Company was in the lead, followed by C Company, HHC, B and A Companies, then the FSC, with the Motorised Battalion bringing up the rear. Battalion CO Lieutenant Colonel Kieran Lyse had made them travel in double file. For over twenty minutes, they’d stayed on the highway, undoubtably tearing up the asphalt with their excessive weight and biting tracks. One would have thought their way would have been blocked by a stream of civilians attempting to flee the city, but the path had been unsettlingly clear the whole way through. Now, they were about to enter the Agricultural District and they were still over fifteen Klicks (kilometres) from the Industrial District, and a further ten Klicks from the Residential District.

The _bleep_ and _crackle_ of his R/IC alerted Joseph to a transmission from Tank 4, which was commanded by the Platoon Sergeant (Sergeant First Class Naomi Brucker).

“Iron 2-1 (D Company, 2nd Platoon, Tank 1). This is Iron 2-4 (D Company, 2nd Platoon, Tank 4). Do you copy? Over.”

“This is Iron 2-1,” said Joseph into his headset microphone. “Read you loud and clear. Over.”

“2-1. Be advised, these fields are impacting visibility. Recommend we switch to thermal optics. Over.”

Joseph glanced around him and found the roads surrounded by crops of wheat. Coming into harvest season, they were coming close to a metre tall above the ground. Up in his turret, he could easily see over them. But that didn’t mean there couldn’t be anything prowling in the fields.

“Roger, 2-4. Switching to thermal. You want to tell the others (referring to Staff Sergeants Mark Yefelt and Mohammad Abyad, commanders of 2nd Platoon’s Tank 2 and Tank 3 respectively)? Over.”

“I’ll let you have the honour, 2-1. Out.”

“Copy, 2-4. Out.”

When he’d been inducted into the 8th Armoured, Joseph had been a newcomer, replacing another Second Lieutenant who had cracked under pressure and been caught abandoning his post. The platoon, many of whom had seen at least two months of active combat and been involved in at least half a dozen engagements, had received him…cautiously. Granted, their cold receival wasn’t out of the ordinary. To become an officer in the Atlas military, one merely needed to have a university degree and graduate from OCS (Officer Candidate School). There was no need to have already served as an enlisted person and no prior combat experience was required. When he earned his commission as a Second Lieutenant (or a ‘butter bar’, as his rank was often referred to), he was inexperienced, untested and raw. Three months might not be a long time in the grand scheme of things, but when those three months were spent fighting for one’s life with the threat of death hanging over every moment, both waking and sleeping, there just wasn’t a viable comparison between someone like him just coming into the fight and others who had even a single battle under their belt. There were very few things that a soldier detested more than inept leadership. And the men and women of 2nd Platoon had witnessed just that – a leader unwilling and unable to guide them through the flames of war, who would rather save his own skin than share the burden.

At almost three months in, they had warmed up to him significantly. At the very least, he hadn’t tried to go AWOL (Abandonment Without Leave) yet, and he’d found himself easily folding into their routine both in and out of battle. There were still times where he’d slip up – as he was doing now, carelessly hanging out of the turret when he should have been glued to his TCD (Tank Commander Display), utilising any of the myriad of viewing options (night vision, thermal, infrared, etc.) to keep an eye out for hostiles in the night. But his platoon chose to understand his inexperience instead of condemning it, with the unsaid expectation that he would keep his shit together and lead them out when the shooting started. Naomi, a veteran tanker of thirteen years, had thrown him a bone tonight by letting him inform the other tanks to stay on their thermals. It would make it appear as if he’d come up with the idea and give them a small boost of reassurance that he had his head screwed on the right way. He appreciated it and endeavoured to not let his Platoon Sergeant’s given chance go to waste.

“Iron 2 (D Company, 2nd Platoon). This is Iron 2-1. If you haven’t already, switch your TCDs to thermal and keep your turrets on a swivel. Over.”

“This is Iron 2-2. Roger that, 2-1,” said Mark.

“2-3 copies, 2-1,” said Mohammad.

“2-4 here. Wilco,” said Naomi, keeping up the benevolent charade.

* * *

“Contact! Contact! Identify Grimm! Two o’clock in the fields!”

Jerking up at the call over the radio, which had come over the 3C (Company Command Channel), Joseph fumbled for the TC (Tank Commander) Override, then traversed the turret right.

“Driver! Halt!” he said into his R/IC, before switching to the platoon frequency and saying “Iron 2! Halt, halt, halt! Contact at our two!”

Their tank lurched to a stop as the driver, Specialist Orelia Barok, slammed her foot on the brake pedal. As the turret continued rotating, he saw, through the grey of his TCD’s thermal sight, the white shapes of the tanks from 1st Platoon come to a similar stop. To his left and rear, 2nd Platoon had halted as well. Before he could finish orienting the turret, he heard the staccato of machine gun fire from multiple sources. He saw the briefest flares of bullets scything through crops and squinted at the screen, silently urging the turret to turn faster.

His first view of the Grimm was the corpse of a Beowolf. Presumably riddled by machine guns from 1st and 2nd Platoons, it was on its side and beginning to dissipate into mist. There were more – at least twenty – running at full speed toward the tanks.

“Gunner. Machine gun. Identify twenty plus Wolves. Six hundred fifty metres.”

“Identified,” his gunner, Corporal Rupert Lamar, confirmed. Not a second later, Joseph heard the rhythmic _thumps_ of the Enforcer’s co-axial M37A2 MMG (Medium Machine Gun). Rounds flew downrange, cutting down plants and monsters alike. His loader, Private First Class Fabian Narz, who had been manning the pintle-mounted MMG, was guided by the tracers and started firing too. Joseph was tempted to man his own pintle M75 HMG (Heavy Machine Gun), but refrained. They were already shooting enough guns to handle the Grimm. No need to waste the ammo.

Under the sustained fire of at least eight tanks (probably more if 3rd Platoon and Headquarters Element were also engaging), the Grimm fell easily. Splotches of white appeared on the thermal display, hinting at body parts being blown off, and blood and organs spilling onto the ground. Joseph would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad for having to settle with the ‘sterilised’ version.

Even when the last Wolf fell, they still kept firing, not wanting to take any chances. About five seconds of post-mortem shooting passed before Joseph’s radio was filled with the voice of Captain Igor Hessler, D Company’s CO.

“All Iron Victors (D Company vehicles). This is Iron-Actual (D Company leader). Cease fire. I say again, cease fire. Over.”

Joseph keyed in his platoon to relay the order.

“Iron 2. Cease fire. Cease fire.”

2nd Platoon’s machine guns fell silent. Ahead of them, 1st Platoon also stopped shooting. Not long after, the only sounds from their tanks were the rumbling engines. There was a brief pause where Joseph noticed that he was breathing heavily, even though he hadn’t been exerting himself. Then he realised it was because he was excited.

The first shots had been fired. Ever since they’d left Fort Helix, 2nd Battalion had been itching to kill something. Their Valean allies were under attack, and their buddies in the 4th Infantry Division and 3rd Marine Expeditionary Brigade were currently bleeding and dying while they were stuck in their tin cans on what felt like a slow Sunday drive to the fight. Even if it was against a relatively helpless enemy, it finally felt like they were actually contributing to repel the invasion.

“All Iron Victors. This is Iron-Actual. Resume advance on my mark. Acknowledge? Over.”

“Iron 1-1 acknowledges. Over,” said Second Lieutenant Drake Buzare, 1st Platoon’s leader.

“This is Iron 2-1. Acknowledged. Over,” said Joseph.

“Iron 3-1 acknowledged. Over,” said Second Lieutenant Jane Felson, 3rd Platoon’s leader.

“Roger. All Iron Victors acknowledged,” said Captain Hessler. “Resume advance in three, two, one, mark.”

“Driver. Ahead, full throttle,” Joseph said.

“Copy. Full throttle,” replied Orelia, and the Enforcer was back in motion.

* * *

They passed through the rest of the Agricultural District without further engagement. Joseph could see the Industrial District on the thermal display long before they reached it. With the exuberant number of smokestacks and other indications of heat, he might as well have been looking at a blank white screen.

“Iron 2. This is Iron 2-1,” he radioed, without any prompting from Naomi this time. “Advise you switch off thermals and back to night vision. Over.”

He received affirmatives from 2nd Platoon.

Just as he keyed the TCD to replace the grey of thermal with the green tint of night vision, his R/IC crackled with a transmission from Captain Hessler over the company command channel.

“All Iron Victors. This is Iron-Actual. Iron 0 (D Company Headquarters Element) has visual on potential friendlies in the area. Eyes on possible M290s. All Iron Victors are to halt and await further. Out.”

Joseph frowned as he responded with an affirmative. Vale’s 3rd Infantry Division hadn’t mentioned Atlesian units on the Agricultural-Industrial border, much less M290s.

The M290 Paladin Battlesuit was Atlas’ newest foray into armoured warfare. It had competed with the very M7 Enforcers they were crewing right now to replace the M1A3 Sensha MBT five years ago. From what he knew, it had thus far been produced in limited numbers, most of which had apparently gone missing shortly after rolling off the Schnee Dust Company’s production lines. A dozen of them had been discovered in the aftermath of the Breach of Vale, repurposed by the White Fang who had planned to use them to wreak havoc in the city alongside the Grimm. This had placed the entire HEX (HEavy eXoskeleton) Program on hold, with all battlesuit units being withdrawn from deployment. And yet, there were more here. Had Atlas decided to send them to Vale after all? Then again, they were only about eight Klicks from the Mavis Complex, where the 15th IBCT had been garrisoned. Maybe they'd been reinforced with the battlesuits.

He didn’t have much time to think on it, as his TCD picked up a flash of bright white at the front, followed by an explosion.

Immediately, his R/IC was filled with radio chatter from Headquarters Element and 1st Platoon, the latter of whom were seemingly close enough to see what had happened.

“Contact front! Contact front!”

“Iron 0-1 (Captain Hessler’s Enforcer) is down! I say again, Iron 0-1 is down!”

“All Iron Victors. This is Iron 0-2 (First Lieutenant Kurt Strauch’s, 2nd Platoon’s XO’s – eXecutive Officer’s, Enforcer). Unknowns are hostile! Multiple M290s firing on Iron! Line formation ASAP! 1 and 3 left! 2 to the right! How copy, goddamn it?”

“Iron 1 copies! Going left!” said Drake.

“Roger 0-2! Iron 2 going right!” Joseph shouted. Not waiting to hear if Jane acknowledged for 3rd Platoon, he switched to 2nd Platoon’s frequency. He felt the adrenaline, which had slowly abated after their encounter with the Beowolves, come back with a vengeance. They’d lost a tank. More specifically, they’d lost Captain Hessler’s tank. In a couple of heartbeats, shit had just hit the fan for D Company. In the following minutes, which might be the last of his life, he could be scared, pissed, or both. He chose both. It looked like the White Fang hadn’t used up all their stolen Paladins in the Breach after all. It was time for payback.

“Iron 2. This is Iron 2-1. All Victors head right and form a line with Iron 0! Left to right, 2-1 to 2-4! Over!”

Without his urging, Orelia traversed the tank’s hull right thirty degrees, then threw it into full throttle. 2nd Platoon followed, their twin turbine engines roaring as they sped offroad and onto dirt.

There were more flashes and explosions. Joseph gritted his teeth, frustrated that he wasn’t close enough and didn’t have the right angle to see what was happening. He nevertheless prepared to fire.

“Loader! AP (short for APSST – Armour Piercing Stabilising Sabot Tracer)!”

Fabian, who had dropped down into the turret’s interior when the company had started taking fire, reached into the shell storage compartment. Withdrawing a cylinder sporting a tip with fins jutting out from three different equidistant points, he inserted the round into the Enforcer’s 120mm M350A2 Smoothbore Cannon’s breach. Closing the breach with a practiced, confidant motion, Joseph heard Fabian yell “AP up!” to alert him and the other tankers that the gun was now loaded and ready to fire.

They were now pulling up next to Headquarters Element. Joseph felt the hairs on his neck stand as he saw, through the TCD, the burning husk of Captain Hessler’s Enforcer. Secondary detonations wracked the tank as stored ammo was cooked off by the fire and earlier explosions.

He ordered Orelia to halt when they were about ten metres from the closest vehicle, D Company’s First Sergeant Sophia Lux’s M55A1 Tarantula IFV (Infantry Fighting Vehicle). The tracked support carrier was firing its M811 Autocannon and co-axial M37A2 MMG almost nonstop, with expended casings flying out at an alarming rate.

Finally, Joseph could see what they were up against.

At least eight Paladins were around eight hundred metres from their front. As large as they were, they were attempting to take cover behind the various factories and warehouses that made up the Industrial District. And suddenly, Joseph understood. These guys must have been tasked with keeping civilians looking to flee through the highway in the city. That was why the roads had been clear. He didn’t dare ponder if they had used lethal force to achieve that.

He saw the glow of activated Dust on the barrels of their arm-mounted M80 Pulse Cannons and flares of warheads being launched from their shoulder-mounted missile racks. Targeting lasers could be seen from various parts of their frames, which guided their missiles to their intended foes. Unfortunately for them, it also held up a big fucking sign for his night vision to identify their positions.

“Gunner. AP. M290 at our eleven. Eight hundred and ten metres.”

“Identified,” said Rupert.

“Up!” repeated Fabian.

“Fire!”

“On the way!” said Rupert.

There was a _thump_ and the tank rocked back as the cannon ignited the Dust propellant and sent the round flying. Almost immediately after, Fabian reopened the breach to let the empty shell casing fall out and roll on the turret’s floor.

Joseph saw a puff of smoke come from his target. When the obscuring mist cleared, he saw a Paladin tumbling to the ground, its left leg ripped off at the waist section. Miniature sparks were seen flying as severed circuits and hydraulics struggled to keep the battlesuit upright. Ultimately, they weren’t enough, and thirty-seven tonnes of oversized exoskeleton crashed on its back.

Whoever was piloting the M290 remained stubborn, however. It used one arm to lift itself up and went to aim one of its Pulse Cannons at 2nd Platoon.

“Target: Repeat,” Joseph ordered to Rupert and Fabian. The latter had already started the process of loading another AP shell.

“Up!”

“Fire!”

“On the way!”

Rupert launched another round. This time, the AP shell went through the Paladin’s entire body. Punching through its abdominal plating, it tore up its internal components before coming out the upper back. The battlesuit exploded in a series of countless parts, followed soon by the detonation of its stored missiles and particle magazines. What little coherent mass that remained was soon engulfed in a ball of energy and shrapnel.

“Target: Cease fire,” said Joseph. He keyed into the TC Override, scanning the TCD for another hostile for Rupert to shoot.

He was quickly guided by First Sergeant Lux’s Tarantula, whose autocannon and MMG were sending tracer rounds to another Paladin dashing from a warehouse to a stack of shipping containers. A couple of the autocannon’s 25mm rounds hit, making the Paladin jerk slightly from the impact. The Paladin planted its feet, sliding to a halt behind the containers and blind-firing one of its Pulse Cannons over the top. Poorly aimed, the ball of ionised air zipped between his and Mark’s tanks.

“Gunner. AP. M290. Twelve thirty. Behind the shipping containers. Seven hundred and eighty metres. Shoot through the containers if you have to.”

“Identified.”

“Up!”

“Fire!”

“On the way!”

There was a flash of light on the shipping container, followed by the Paladin keeling over as a dart of tungsten easily penetrated the container’s comparatively flimsy steel and nailed it right in its centre mass.

“Overdesigned, pretentious piece of shit…” Joseph heard Rupert mutter in his R/IC.

The Paladin had been a controversial addition to Atlas’ arsenal. Advertised to revolutionise armoured warfare through the advent of monolithic exoskeletons, it had basically marketed itself with its unique design and unabashedly promising capabilities. But beyond the first impression of a domineering, invincible battlesuit was a logistical nightmare. With so many moving parts and complicated mechanisms, the Paladin required frequent maintenance and an exuberant number of spare parts and technicians on hand to attend to its frequent breakdowns and PMCSs (Preventative Maintenance Checks and Services). In addition, as demonstrated in their current engagement, the M290 was a close-range brawler. Being made to effectively eyeball its Pulse Cannons and manually hold a laser lock for its missiles, a Paladin’s pilot was encouraged to get stuck in at point blank and melee range. And while Captain Hessler’s burning tank was a testament to the lethality of their weapons, the reliability of those same weapons at increasingly long distances left much to be desired.

The M7 Enforcer, in comparison, was a much more ‘down to earth’ system, relying on tried-and-true tracked locomotion to get where it needed to go. Joseph had heard of proposals to make ‘innovative alterations’ that would supposedly improve the tank, such as an auto-loader or anti-gravitational engines. The former had a lot more merit than the latter. Ignoring the fact that the Aerial Navy already had a monopoly on Gravity Dust, the applications of a hover tank (e.g. ability to cross rivers without bridges) were limited in scope and came with a laundry list of complications (increased fuel consumption, lack of traction, increased vulnerability to hits on the lower hull and engines, etc). Regardless, their M7 Enforcers were currently fighting at their ideal range with long, clear sightlines to their targets. That would change once they properly entered the Industrial and Residential Districts. But for now, he was determined to enjoy the advantage while it lasted.

Joseph was about to order “Target: Repeat,” when the Paladin was hit in the right shoulder by a round from another one of 2nd Platoon’s tanks. Forcefully twisted right by the force of the impact, the Paladin let off a desperate final attack with its missiles, hastily flaring a laser downrange for them to lock on to. Just as the warheads left the racks, it was finally hit in the cockpit area by a third tank. Without a living pilot or functional body, it crumpled lifelessly.

Joseph saw the missiles streaking towards his platoon. Most were going wide or high, the loss of the targeting laser making them stay whatever course they had been on without making the necessary adjustments. But there was one coming dangerously close to his tank, its burning propellant drawing an undesirable line that marked his premature demise. There wasn’t enough time to dodge it. It was just too fast.

“Incoming!” he yelled to his crew. They had maybe a second to brace themselves before the missile impacted.

There was a loud _gong_ , proceeded by a dull ringing. Joseph groaned as he felt the reverberations of the hit in his chest. Instinctively, he clapped his hands over his headset. Breathing became difficult. Shaking his head rapidly, as if doing so would somehow help him recover his reeling senses, he caught sight of Rupert and Fabian similarly bent over and clutching their heads. Orelia, seated in the front half of the hull, wasn’t visible, but he imagined her doing the same.

Judging by how he was still frantically trying to gulp down oxygen, and that he couldn’t feel any unwanted heat or fragments in his body, Joseph guessed the missile hadn’t penetrated (or at least detonated in) his tank. The M7 Enforcer was layered with reactive ceramite plating. When the missile had made contact, the compact explosives stored in multiple segments in the hull had gone off, meeting and redirecting much of the kinetic and thermal energy away from the tank’s interior. But fucking hell, the impact had been loud. Even when wearing his R/IC, which was meant to filter the majority of the tank’s noises out, Joseph was still struggling to make out anything on the radio.

“…-2…ou…me…2-1…copy...res…”

Bit by bit, he was able to claw himself back to into lucidity. He tried to reach for his R/IC, but found his hands were shaking too violently. He took in a steadying breath, counting to four before exhaling. He repeated this twice, aware that there could still be hostiles firing on his tank – his platoon, but also recognising he needed to return to a state of coherent thought before acting. After his third breath, he was starting to hear normally again.

“Iron 2-1. This is Iron 2-2. I say again, what’s your status? Over.”

It was Mark from Tank 2. The Staff Sergeant had probably seen him get hit by the missile. Before answering him, Joseph addressed his crew.

“Sound off, people!”

“I’m good,” said Orelia.

“I’m fine,” said Rupert.

“Still here,” said Fabian.

“Gunner. Fire at will,” he instructed, letting Rupert pick his own targets. He thumbed his R/CI, where Mark was still trying to hail him.

“Iron 2-2. This is Iron 2-1. We read you. Over.”

“Roger, Iron 2-1. What’s your status? Over.”

“Took a hit on the right, but we’re good to go. Out.”

“Copy, 2-1. Out.”

They could make a proper damage assessment later. For now, he’d just have to hope the tank would stay together until their current fight was over.

* * *

They were soon joined by C Company’s tanks, who quickly moved to form a second line behind them. Under their combined fire, the last Paladins fell, their scorched and shattered frames littering the roads and buildings.

As they waited for Headquarters Company, the two Mechanised Companies, the FSC, and the motorised battalion, they were able to count their casualties.

D Company had lost three tanks: one from Headquarters Element and two from 1st Platoon. Being the leading vehicles, they’d taken the brunt of fire and had paid for it dearly so. Captain Hessler and his crew were all KIA (Killed in Action), leaving First Lieutenant Strauch to take command. Joseph hadn’t known Captain Hessler very well, speaking with him once when he’d been introduced to D Company, then a few times during briefings or platoon inspections afterward. But he could see his death was hitting a lot of the men, many of whom had served under him for months if not years longer than he had, hard. Naomi had been noticeably subdued when she’d reported her and Mohammad’s status through the platoon channel. He’d thought about asking if she was alright, but ended up refraining, due to their conversation being broadcasted to the other tanks, and also because he trusted she could overcome the loss on her own (or at least push it aside in the fights to come).

His Enforcer’s side skirt had a long, black dent on the side. The missile hadn’t, in fact, detonated on it, instead hitting it at a shallow enough angle to ricochet off the plating. All systems appeared green, and they were still ready for action.

They recovered what they could from the lost Enforcers. They couldn’t salvage anything from Captain Hessler’s tank, but one of 1st Platoon’s casualties had ‘only’ had its left track and wheels melted by a Pulse Cannon, leaving the crew to be reassigned to First Sergeant Lux’s Tarantula. Most of the rounds in its now unoccupied turret were redistributed to the other tanks. Once they’d finished cannibalising as much of its ammo as they could, they dropped a thermite grenade in the ammo compartment, then ran like hell as the tank’s interior went up in flames. Just to be sure, one of 1st Platoon’s surviving Enforcers rolled up and put an AP round in the engine and fuel compartment.

When they received the order to resume their push towards Lomarian Bridge, they did so three tanks short, and with the morbid contemplation of who would be the next to burn up.


	7. Invasion VII

**Specialist Owen Rockwell**

**2 nd Squad, 1st Platoon, A Company  
** **2 nd Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment  
** **15 th Infantry Brigade Combat Team  
** **4 th Infantry Division**

**2025 Hours**

Owen found himself, not for the first time, glancing at the Huntsmen.

He knew what it must have looked like (and accurately so): just your average run of the mill infantryman getting starry-eyed at and fanboying over the elite supersoldiers that just saved his fireteam’s skin. But he couldn’t help himself.

For all the good it seemed to be doing them right now, Atlas was still the most powerful force in all of Remnant. With their numerous fleets, wings and divisions, equipped with the best gear and given the best training suited for churning out a mass produced professional military, their reach and abilities were meant to be unrivalled. Even as a lowly grunt in a unit that was identical to countless others, Owen could rest assured that he was a part of the cutting edge of martial capacity. At the end of the day, behind all the moral quandaries, all the international sanctions and calls for disarmament, the bottom line was simple: _No one_ had a bigger stick than Atlas.

And yet, despite being a part of such an awe-inspiring force, Owen in turn was awed by those who went above the standards set upon himself and his squadmates. It was no secret that Huntsmen from any Kingdom were often treated like celebrities, but the AHC was different. Amongst the thousands of soldiers that Atlas trained and deployed, they could and would run faster, push harder, fight fiercer, and bleed for far longer than anyone else, including most other Huntsmen from the other Kingdoms. War was their prerogative, and death their accomplice. To the regular forces in Atlas’ various service branches, they were revered, they were envied, they were incomprehensible, they were ‘cool’.

Owen could still remember the cadences that he’d been forced to sing during boot camp. Some of them had included lines like:

_Raise yourself, give a shout, charge the enemy,  
_ _Show those fucking REMFs that you’re AHC!_

(REMF: Rear Echelon Motherfuckers, which was a bit redundant, considering the ‘fucking’ that came before it in the chant.)

While it wasn’t unheard of for soldiers that hadn’t attended Atlas Academy to be invited into the AHC, it was an exceptionally rare occurrence. Owen had personally found most of those hoping for said invitation to be more concerned about the fame that came with the title, rather than the responsibilities. He’d also accepted that he wouldn’t be anywhere near skilled enough to be singled out by AASOC. And honestly, he was okay with that. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t admire them as he was doing so now.

The rest of his fireteam were similarly enraptured, trying to subtly tilt their helmets every now and again so their peripheral cameras could see the four-man team who’d slipped into their ranks. If the Huntsmen noticed them (and they almost certainly did), they didn’t mention it, continuing to sweep their surroundings with their weapons and optics.

They had re-established contact with the rest of 2nd Squad, who were, by their limited knowledge of local landmarks and points of interest, fifteen hundred metres westward.

Eager to rejoin their unit, they’d set off on their way. The Huntsmen had gone with them, saying their objective was to secure Lomarian Bridge, which was roughly four Klicks from their current position, and round up any friendly units to head for that same area. Hitoshi had relinquished command over their small group, as First Sergeant Canaris was the senior NCO.

Their advance was slow and cautious. Hitoshi had ordered another ammo check after the Huntsmen had bailed them out. Owen had a little over a hundred and thirty rounds in his loaded belt, and one last two-hundred round belt as spare in his pouches. He’d used up one magazine for his M15, leaving him with two dozen bullets for his pistol. His squadmates had all used up at least one magazine for their M90s and Martin was down to a measly three grenades for his M84. They had one, maybe two, good firefights left in them before they were depleted. With the threat of running out of ammo at the forefront of their minds, Lomarian Bridge became an unconscious ‘safe-zone’ for them; a place where they could restock and fill their pouches to the brim with bullets, grenades, and everything else they needed.

Owen, in particular, was noticing the absence of his canteen. Army doctrine recommended that a soldier receive around a litre of water per hour involving ‘heavy work’. Assuming they would have returned to their assigned barracks in the Mavis Complex by midnight, the majority of 1st Platoon had forgone much of their gear when suiting up for patrol. By now, his parched and clammy throat and mouth was making him wish he could go back in time and punch his earlier self for forgoing such a basic necessity.

They were coming up to an intersection when First Sergeant Canaris signalled them to halt. They obeyed, weapons up and ready to engage. He heard footsteps and shouting in the distance, which were growing steadily louder. It was coming from their left, but he couldn’t see who they were, as they had yet to reach the intersection’s corner.

First Sergeant Canaris made a ‘down’ motion with her left hand and they all dropped, trying to conceal themselves behind cars and other objects in the street. The exception to this was one of the other Huntsmen – the second Huntress – who came to her side and started staring intently at a wall. Owen cocked his head at the display but didn’t question it. After a few seconds, she turned around and said through her radio and into their helmets (the Huntsmen had patched themselves into the same frequency as the fireteam), “Fifteen plus hostiles. Small arms and possible rocket launchers.”

“How can you tell?” asked Trevor. She tapped her helmet, where her eyes would have been. Owen noticed a thin visor, which broke up the usual metallic domes that the others were wearing.

“I can see their guns. They’re not ours or Vale’s.”

“Set up a base of fire here,” said First Sergeant Canaris. “Stay out of sight. On my mark, we engage. My team moves up on them and hits them from one side while you do the same from here.”

“Roger,” said Hitoshi. He started directing the fireteam in various directions, with himself, Martin and Trevor going forward and left, while Owen was grouped with Annette and Grant, the latter of whom had wrapped field dressing around his ring finger. When Grant’s aura had broken, he’d been hit by a round that had nearly severed his finger at the knuckle. One of the Huntsmen had treated him by covering the wound in saline, then ‘reattached’ the finger with tape. He would still need to see a medic later, but it would do for now.

The Huntsmen split off from their fireteam, heading right and crawling into the mess of vehicles near the middle of the intersection. Owen and his squadmates searched for good firing lanes that wouldn’t require them to expose anything more than their helmets and barrels. Owen himself crawled up to lay his M29’s bipod between a lamppost and an open guitar case, which had likely belonged to some street performer who’d run off like everyone else to gods know where. Maybe if they checked inside the buildings, they’d find people taking shelter, but there wasn’t time to look. Annette was to his right and Grant to his left.

A few seconds after he’d settled down, he saw the silhouettes of over a dozen gunmen start to appear. Any doubts of whether they were friendly or not evaporated at the sight of their white masks. As the Huntsman had informed them, they were carrying a motley assortment of rifles, submachine guns and shotguns. At least three of them were carrying tubes with handles and stocks. If Owen had to guess, they were M40 Bazookas – old anti-armour weapons that had been phased out of the Atlas military after 45 AGW (After the Great War), being replaced by the M299 Albtraumfaust, which in turn was traded in for their current M12 Recoiless Rifles and M820 SURs (Single-Use Rockets) in 68 AGW. It looked like tonight he was getting the full tour on antiquated firearms. At least he didn’t have to worry about an entry fee.

His helmet’s radio _bleeped_ , then began to relay First Sergeant Canaris’s voice.

“Locksmith 1-2-2. This is Bravo 3-4. What’s your status? Over.”

Owen had wondered why First Sergeant Canaris hadn’t just continued to use her semblance of telepathy. Maybe it required a lot of focus, and she’d figured she’d save it for when they really needed it.

He glanced to where Hitoshi was, crouching behind the front of semi-trailer. The Sergeant was turned to face his group. Owen gave him a thumbs up and he said into the radio, “This is Locksmith 1-2-2. We’re set. Over.”

“Acknowledged. Engage on my mark. How copy? Over.”

“Solid copy. Over.”

“Three–“

Owen peered down his iron sights, lining his weapon up with one of the White Fang holding a Bazooka. With the recoil of his M29, and if his target was smart enough to drop to the ground when the shooting started, he likely wasn’t going to kill him. But his job wasn’t necessarily to kill them anyways, just to suppress them.

“–two, one, mark!”

Muzzle flashes and puffs smoke came from his M29 as he squeezed the trigger. He couldn’t tell if his rounds broke through the insurgents’ auras, but he caught glimpses of bodies dropping – voluntarily or otherwise. The sounds of expended shells pinging off the hard ground filled the silence after every burst. Eventually, he couldn’t see any more standing targets and rose to a crouch, the muscles in his arm flexing to haul his weapon up and hold it steady. When he saw a head pop up, he let loose with another bout of suppressing fire.

His eyes were momentarily dazed as a torrent of green bolts of energy – far too many for him to count – cut horizontal lines across his vision. Splashing against cars, roads, and people alike, it left angry glowing splotches where it impacted as matter was superheated in the blink of an eye. One of the White Fang was caught in its line of fire, his aura disintegrating in a fraction of a second before his entire torso was melted. He didn’t even have time to react before he was scythed into a pair of smouldering pieces. Another was clipped in the back. His aura held, but his uniform caught fire, causing him to drop to the ground, screaming in panic. There was a _crack_ , and he fell silent, mouth frozen open in mid-cry as a sniper round punched through his head. His burning corpse continued to lay in the open, leaving those who didn’t have their noses covered to smell the abhorrent stench of burning flesh, fluids and organs.

Owen continued firing, eyes and trigger finger quick to identify anyone who dared to even raise a gun barrel out of whatever cover they’d taken. The _thump_ of Martin’s UGL was followed by a puff of smoke and a gunman being sent flying out and on her back by the concussive force. Amazingly, despite being well within the lethal radius, she was still moving, dazedly attempting to sit up. Fire from at least three M90s and Owen’s M29 quickly riddled her with bullets, making her flop back down, this time remaining motionless.

With the element of surprise, they were cutting right through the White Fang. In ten seconds, they’d lost just as many men in their impromptu ambush. The few that remained were frantically firing in every direction they could, any potential for rational thought overridden by the rapid and violent ends of their colleagues. Owen saw the tube of a Bazooka starting to come up, its ‘business end’ pointed in his general direction.

“Rocket! Rocket!” called out Annette. Owen joined her and Grant in aiming for the weapon, which was soon accompanied by a face and arms coming up. Their fire was accurate and deadly, causing him to slump as bullets cut through his front. Slumping backwards, the White Fang’s last conscious action was to squeeze the Bazooka’s trigger. What sounded like a shotgun blast rang out as the rocket’s fuel was ignited and it was flung out of the tube. Even though he knew it would go high, Owen flinched, lowering his head like a turtle trying to go back into its shell.

There was the sound of metal scraping on metal, then a spine-tingling _crackle_. Owen was in the middle of resuming fire with his M29 when Annette shouted, “Owen! Move!”

He didn’t have time to respond before his squadmate grabbed his backplate and pulled him to the ground. Owen grunted as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He looked up and his eyes widened as he saw the lamp post he’d been crouched next to had been severed near the top of the pole. The light head was in the middle of falling to the ground…right where his feet were. Using an elbow and a leg, he spun himself counterclockwise ninety degrees, then raised an arm to shield his neck, which his helmet and chestplate did not cover. The sound of shattering glass and splintering metal was proceeded by small impacts to his side and upper arm. Thankfully, the fragments bounced off his aura, allowing him to get back into a crouching position.

“You alright, man?” asked Grant, who’d seen him drop.

“I’m good! I’m good!” he yelled back. Giving Annette a nod of thanks, he realigned his M29’s stock to his shoulder and resumed firing. For a moment, he felt a flare of anger in his chest. As obvious as it was, only now was he actually processing that fact that, tonight, he was getting shot at. He was getting shot at by a group of revolutionaries that couldn’t get it through their fucking heads that they were shooting, killing, _slaughtering_ both civilians and soldiers alike. Why were the White Fang attacking here and now? What did they have to gain by releasing Grimm on innocents and non-combatants? How had they crashed the CCT Network? There were just too many questions and nowhere near enough answers. And it was likely that he would die here today before he could get any of those answers. He was going to die. He was going to die here in this fucking city, ignorant, afraid, and surrounded by hostiles – all because of these fucking terrorists who, regardless of their reasoning and convictions, were going to _kill him_ and make sure _he_ never made it out of this hellhole to see his home and family ever again.

He’d never asked to be deployed here. He’d never asked to shoulder a burden that the Valeans should have been able to shoulder themselves. He’d never asked to be shot at or charged by monsters on their behalf. This wasn’t even his fight. He shouldn’t be here. He looked back to the burning body and snarled silently. He wished whoever had shot him had let the fucker feel himself burn. Let him feel the pain and suffering the White Fang was causing. Let him feel his insides roasting and ask himself if this was what he wanted. Let him feel his blood evaporate and hang him up to dry for the whole world to see that this is the true monster. The true enemy. The true evil.

And then…he was back. He breaths came out unevenly, and he struggled to focus on his LMG’s iron sights. He blinked several times, not sure if he was trying to clear his head or hold back tears that weren’t coming in the first place.

He shook his head, then squeezed off a long burst, no one particular target in sight and just aiming to keep up his suppressing fire. The rumble of his M29 letting off rounds was a strange comfort – a familiar sensation that formed into a small oasis in the chaotic firefight.

“Hold fire!”

Hitoshi’s shout caught him like a punch to the sternum. He looked around him and saw the others converging on the ambushed group. Shots rang out, as they started dispatching survivors who were still trying to draw weapons on them. Owen couldn’t join them. He was struggling to get himself to move. There was nothing he could do, but breathe.

_What the fuck is happening to me?_

Something touched his arm, and he felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. It was Annette. Grant had moved up, but she was still there, helmet tilted in his direction.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” he said, a little quicker than he’d have liked.

“Your hands are shaking.”

He glanced down and saw that his hands were indeed shaking. Slowly, he lowered his M29, pointing the barrel down and lifting his finger off the trigger. They stayed like that for a while, as he tried to steady his breathing.

“I wanted to kill them,” he said eventually. “Badly.”

“Yeah…” said Annette. “Me too.”

He wasn’t sure what to say after that. Tonight hadn’t been the first time either of them had shot another person. Yet, they’d always tried to put a layer of professionalism, of necessity, behind the act. If they didn’t kill, they’d be the ones being killed. To protect their friends, their family, and their Kingdom, they had to kill the ones that threatened them. And they’d never been as alone as they were right now. There had always been something to achieve and reinforce their fire superiority: armoured and mechanised elements, gun runs, pre-emptive intelligence and bombardments – the lengths Atlas would go to to leverage their technology over their enemies had been one of the few comforts they had hid behind in an attempt to stave off thoughts of their deaths. They couldn’t die because their military wouldn’t allow it. But not here and not now.

Vale wasn’t their home. But it felt like home. It brought forth the idea, the unthinkable possibility, that Atlas could be next. What if tomorrow, next week, or a year from now, they were running through their own streets, blindly going from one point to the next as their entire chain of command crumbled into chaos? What if they couldn’t stop the White Fang and Grimm here? What did it say about Atlas’ chances? What if they never made out to see their people again? It was putting them on edge, even more so than usual in combat. And, as he stared at the burning corpse, he realised it was making them something something different. Something beyond scared or angry. Something that they didn’t know and therefore chose to fear.

The _thuds_ of boots made them look up. First Sergeant Canaris was walking towards them.

“You two hit?” she asked.

“Negative, First Sergeant,” Owen said.

Annette was still looking at the burning corpse. First Sergeant Canaris followed her gaze and stared at it for a few seconds. She didn’t comment on it, merely turning back and gesturing them to follow her and rejoin the main group.

Owen patched himself back into the fireteam’s frequency and heard Hitoshi conversing with Staff Sergeant Pechore.

“–eliminated another group. We’re low on ammo, but will try to keep pushing to your location. Over.”

“Roger, 1-2-2. We’re attempting to contact Locksmith 1-Actual (Second Lieutenant Bradley Peridot, 1st Platoon’s CO). No luck so far. Can you work through channels Alpha– “

There was a sharp burst of static, accompanied by a grunt from Sergeant Pechore.

“1-2? 1-2-Actual. What’s your status? Over,” said Hitoshi.

“Ambush! Ambush!” said Staff Sergeant Pechore. “Contact! Multiple sides! 1-2-2! Requesting immediate assistance! Over!”

Subconsciously, Owen tightened his grip on his LMG. Hitoshi turned to First Sergeant Canaris, who merely nodded in silent agreement.

“Copy, 1-2-Actual. Hang in there. We’ll get to you. Out.”

“Roger. Just follow the fucking gunshots! Out!”

Exchange over, Hitoshi called out, “Team! On me!”

Having all heard all they needed to hear, Owen and his squadmates were ready to start running. After their latest firefight, they were close to coming up blank on ammo. Owen was down to fifty rounds in his current belt and stiil had one spare. Next to him, Trevor checked his rifle’s magazine, doing a double take and disgustedly throwing it away when he saw it was empty, save for the final bullet which had already been chambered. Martin was patting himself down for any 40mm shells he might have missed. Sergeant Pechore hadn’t specified just what exactly they’d been ambushed by, but if it required them to get into a drawn-out fight, they were screwed. The Huntsmen, by comparison, seemed to be comfortably stocked on munitions, which (with the exception of one of the Hunters who had a M90 strapped to his back) was a moot point, as their custom weapons and rounds weren’t compatible with their standard gear.

Yet, in spite of their ammo crisis, they were undeterred from what they needed to do. Their buddies were in trouble. They had the means to aid them, and they would do so to the last bullet and breath. Although, with the addition of such a wildcard as the AHC, they hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Ready, First Sergeant,” Hitoshi said.

“Alright. Let’s move!” she replied, and they set off.

* * *

The distant _pops_ and _cracks_ of gunfire hit their helmet sensors after about a minute of jogging. The urge to transition into a full-blown sprint was strong, but ultimately held back by the threat of charging right into another group of hostiles. They also became aware of the sounds of air combat above. Whereas before, the White Fang’s airships had been flying uncontested, free to unload their troops and Grimm, as well as hose the area below with their weapons, now there was the occasional glimpse of projectiles streaking across the skies. Missiles, autocannons, machine guns and lasers perforated the night, giving off a wonderfully deadly light show for anyone inclined to stop and admire the scene. Unfortunately for Owen, time was a little short for him to take in the sights.

He was breathing heavily. Even with most of its ammo belt depleted, the M29 weighed more than eight kilograms. Compared to the M90, which was a much more manageable three and a half kilograms (aside from Martin’s, which weighed five kilograms, courtesy of his UGL), Owen was starting to consider asking for a hot swap with one of his squadmates.

They were getting close. The gunshots were increasing in volume and they could hear individual voices.

Once more, First Sergeant Canaris signalled them to halt. Fighting the urge to rush out and start shooting, they complied. The Huntress from who had notified them of their previous hostiles moved up to the street corner, staring intently into the concrete wall. Owen saw her form stiffen for a second before she turned around.

“Two groups there and there,” she said, pointing in two directions. “Ten plus hostiles per group. Small arms. Multiple rockets and machine guns.”

“We’ll hit them both,” said First Sergeant Canaris. “You three (she pointed at Owen, Grant and Annette) with Four and I into the first group. Two will take the others and go for the second.”

“Check,” said the other Huntsmen.

“Copy that,” said Hitoshi at the same time, before notifying Sergeant Pechore, “1-2-Actual. This is 1-2-2. Over.”

“We read you 1-2-2. Make it quick. Over,” came back Staff Sergeant Pechore’s strained tone, the sounds of shouting and shooting well present in the background of his comms.

“We’re fifty metres from your position. Coming in from your southeast. Check fire. Over.”

“Roger 1-2-2. Checking fire to our southeast. Out.”

“Force out, people. Let’s go.”

* * *

As they crept forward, they saw the figures of at least a dozen White Fang come into view. They were crouching and bracing their weapons on various parts of the street. There was a _bang_ and a puff of smoke as one of them let loose a rocket. It soared through the air, faster than their eyes could identify, then crashed through the window of a restaurant. There was an explosion, causing dust and debris to fly out of where the glass had been. Owen held his breath for a moment, then released it as he saw muzzle flashes coming from that same restaurant a few seconds later. The other fireteam was – or at least some of them were – still alive.

_“On my mark,”_ said First Sergeant Canaris in his head, as well as to the rest of their group. It appeared she was willing to use her telepathy this time, as half of their group was about to be in a separate engagement and she didn’t want to impede on their own timing.

_“Roger,”_ Owen said – or was it thought? He was still trying to wrap his head around the Huntress’ semblance. Lining up a trio of gunmen who’d clumped together behind a car with their backs to him. A part of him wondered if he would fall back into a bloodthirsty fervour, as he had when seeing the White Fang be set on fire. He pushed the thought aside and steadied his breathing.

As before, First Sergeant Canaris started counting down.

_“Three, two, one–“_

One of Owen’s targets ducked back behind the car, hastily reaching for another magazine for his submachine gun. Their eyes met, and he saw the gunman open his mouth to alert his friends.

_“–mark!”_

Owen squeezed the trigger, feeling the familiar rattle of the M29’s recoil making the stock vibrate against his shoulder. Annette and Grant opened up, letting off disciplined single shots. First Sergeant Canaris and the Hunter she’d referred to as ‘Four’ opened fire. The former was still using her advanced bullpup, discharging crackling sparks of blue energy. The latter had a pistol that looked much bulkier than their M15s and was also firing off bright bolts of energy in one hand and wearing a large gauntlet with a barrel that had been bolted on its side in the other. Their initial combined fire was devastating, gunning down over half the White Fang and sending the others scrambling for new cover.

“Four! Move up!” ordered Hannah.

“Check!” the Hunter said, then started running left, circling around the remaining gunmen. There was a slight whine as his gauntlet became layered with a coating of transparent white. He jumped, flying impossibly fast and far for someone of his size. In a rapid arc, he soared through the air, drawing his gauntlet arm back. Just before he impacted the ground, he punched downwards.

What sounded like a mix between a thunderclap and a gust of wind followed his landing. The concussive force of the strike sent the White Fang stumbling, and those closest to it were knocked off their feet. Crackles of what looked like blue lightning came out of the gauntlet, rushing out in every direction. Those who were in the lightning’s path and struck by it started spasming uncontrollably, crackles of energy and smoke coming off their twitching bodies. Annette, Grant and Owen held their fire, afraid they would hit the Hunter. But First Sergeant Canaris didn’t stop, her weapon slinging bolts of energy down range to cut down the incapacitated White Fang.

There were three gunmen who hadn’t been in the ‘shock zone’ of the Hunter’s gauntlet. They were still disoriented, dazedly trying to level their rifles and submachine guns at the titan that had just come crashing into their side. The Hunter was already in motion before they could zero him in their sights, pistol blasting one target in the chest while his gauntlet was pointed at another. There was a flare of yellow and dark orange as fire came out of the barrel, coating the unfortunate White Fang in a layer of ignited gel that started to burn away his uniform and skin. He instantly dropped and started rolling around and screaming, trying to put the flames out, only for the adhesive substance to continue eating away at his flesh. Owen grimaced, trying not to remind himself of how he’d reacted to the last man he’d seen get set ablaze. He, instead, shifted his M29 to the final enemy and fired off the last of his ammo belt. He wasn’t the only one to do so, and the gunman was knocked down as a deluge of fire from two rifles, a LMG, and an energy weapon tore apart his aura and torso.

“Loading!” Owen called out and began the process of inserting his final two hundred round belt into his M29.

He was detaching his box magazine when First Sergeant Canaris shouted, “Contact left! Contact left!”

_“Not again,”_ thought Owen. This made for the second time he was caught in the middle of a reload. Nevertheless, he looked left to see what was coming.

A horde of about fifteen Beowolves were bounding their way, but there was something strange about them. Grimm, especially juvenile ones as these were, had an unwavering, primitive approach to battle. Once they saw a target, very few things could distract them from their murderous intent. But, at times, they also displayed some animalistic tendencies, such as learning to steer clear of open flames. Owen wasn’t sure if he could classify what he was seeing as animalistic, but the way they were running was different to how they usually sprinted across short distances, with fangs bared and claws ready for dismemberment. If he didn’t know any better, he would say they looked…frightened?

Then he looked further down the street, and felt his mouth dry up.

Had he not just been in the middle of a firefight, and afterwards so fixated in reloading his M29, he might have heard the rhythmic _thumps_ that he was noticing just now. Providing a backdrop to the Wolves was something tall, at over five metres in height. Humanoid in shape, it was in a steady run, fast enough to stay on the Grimm’s tails, but not enough to overtake them. It had its arms up, revealing a pair of cannons that glowed blue and white with contained energy. As they came into focus, Owen saw one, two – oh gods – three more running behind it. They weren’t firing, though – just pointing their guns above the Wolves, as if it was threatening to unleash a salvo on them.

Owen recognised the silhouettes. They were M290 Paladin Battlesuits.

And on their repainted, grey frames was the symbol of the White Fang.


End file.
